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SPECIMENS  OF  THE 


FORMS  OF 


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English  Readings  for  Students. 


Specimens  of  prose  Composition. 

The  Short  Story.     Edited  by  Dr.  Geo.  H.  Nettleton  of  Yale, 
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of  Poker  Flat,  and  Stevenson's  Markheim.  With  introduction  and 
notes. 

Forms  of  Discourse.     Edited   by  Prof.  E.    H.   Lewis  of  Lewis 
Institute,  Chicago.     367  pp.      i6mo.     60c.,  net. 

A  compact  manual,  with  58  selections,  chiefly  from  contemporary 
authors,  and  designed  to  cover  the  field  of  the  volumes  below. 
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xxxviii+209  pp.      l6mo.      50c.,  net. 

Selections  from  Scott,  Thackeray,  Hawthorne,  Austen,  George 
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ments. HL  Various  Kinds.  IV.  Technique  of  Good  Narrative. 
Prose  Description.  Edited  by  Dr.  Charles  Sears  Baldwin  of 
Yale.     xIviii-)-i45  pp.     iGmo.     50c.,  net. 

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Carlyle,    Swinburne,     Pater,    Henry    James,   Brander    Matthews, 
Lamb,  Landor,  Stevenson,  etc.     With  introduction  and  notes. 
Exposition.     Edited    by    Prof.    Hammond   Lamont   of   Brown. 
xxiv+iSo  pp.     i6mo.     50c.,  net. 

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on  the  Unemployed  ;  Matthew  Arnold  on  Wordsworth;  etc.,  etc. 

Argumentation.     Modern.     Edited  by  Prof.    Geo.    P.  Baker  of 

Harvard,     vii  +  186  pp.      i6mo.      50c.,  net. 

Speeches  by  Chatham,  Lord  Mansfield,  Huxley,  Erskine,  etc., 
the  first  letter  of  Junius,  and  specimen  brief. 

HcNrvY     HULl      tX    CD.,     378  Wabash  Ave.,  Chicago. 


SPECIMENS  OF  THE 

FORMS  OF  DISCOURSE 


COMPILED  AND   EDITED  BY 

E.  H.a^EWIS 

Professor  of  English  in  the  Lewis  Institute,  Chicago 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY   HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

JQOO 


Copyright,  igoo, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  &  Ca 


THE  MERSHON  COMPANY  PKES3, 
RAHWAY,  N.  J. 


PREFACE. 

This  volume  attempts  to  give  specimens  of  five 
forms  of  discourse,  that  of  Criticism  being  added  to 
the  four  primary  types.  Under  the  head  of  Expo- 
sition there  is  also  a  specimen  of  Summary  (p.  138), 
and,  under  that  of  Argumentation,  a  specimen  Brief. 
There  are  sixty  examples  all  told,  from  forty  dif- 
ferent authors.  About  the  same  number  of  exer- 
cises are  suggested — and  merely  suggested — on  pp. 
365-367,  the  later  tasks  requiring  more  labor  than 
the  earlier. 

The  purpose  of  the  collection  is  to  furnish  illus- 
trations supplementary  to  lectures  or  a  manual, 
and  to  supply  material  for  the  inductive  infer- 
ence of  rhetorical  principles  on  the  part  of  the 
student.  Models,  in  the  enslaving  sense  of  that 
word,  the  selections  are  certainly  not  meant  to  be. 
Franklin  may  have  molded  himself  on  Addison,  and 
Stevenson  may  have  woven  his  style  with  an  eye 
to  patterns  from  a  score  of  looms,  but  no  such  di- 
rect imitation  is  recommended  to  college  students 
in  this  volume.  Yet  the  study  of  models  has  its 
purpose  to-day,  as  truly  as  when  Raphael  plucked 
out  the  heart  of  Perugino's  secrets,  and  proceeding 
to  other  masters  bettered  the  instruction  of  each. 
The  purpose  is  perhaps  three-fold:  to  help  the  stu- 
dent to  underlying  principles  of  invention;  to  fa- 
miliarize   him    with    certain    living   organisms    as 


IV  PREFACE. 

informed  by  these  principles,  lest  in  forgetful  haste 
he  apply  the  principles  mechanically;  and  finally  to 
reveal  his  powers  to  himself  by  experiment  and  self- 
comparison. 

A  book  of  this  sort  is  best  used  after  the  student 
has  had  some  introduction  to  the  types  of  compo- 
sition. Without  such  an  introduction,  he  may  pro- 
gress fairly  well  until  he  reaches  Chapter  IV.,  where 
he  will  need  some  formal  statements,  in  lecture  or 
manual,  of  the  principles  of  inference  and  evidence. 

The  author's  best  thanks  are  due  to  several  pub- 
lishers for  permissions  to  reprint.  Detailed  credit 
is  given  at  the  beginning  of  selections. 

Chicago,  October,  1899. 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

DESCRIPTION. 

PAGE 

I. 

A  Cottage,    . 

Edgar  Allan  Poe,  . 

I 

2, 

Charles  the  Fifth, 

John  Lothrop  Motley, 

3 

3- 

A  Strawberry, 

R.  D.  Blackmore,    , 

5 

4- 

The     Source     of     the 

Arveiron, 

John  Tyndall, 

6 

5- 

The  Dawn  in  Temper- 

ate Climates,     . 

John  C.  Van  Dyke, 

9 

6. 

German  and  Celt, 

John  Lothrop  Motley, 

12 

7- 

Common    Trees    Com 

pared. 

John  C.   Van  Dyke, 

.       14 

8. 

The     Fagade     of     St 

Mark's, 

John  Ruskin,     . 

16 

9- 

A  May  Afternoon, 

James  Lane  Allen, 

17 

lO. 

The  Cathedral  of  Ant 

werp. 

John  Lothrop  Motley, 

19 

II. 

The  Mason,  . 

Louis  Bertrand, 

21 

12. 

The  Hall  Farm,   . 

George  Eliot,    . 

22 

13- 

Sights  and  Sounds  a 

Walden,     . 

Henry  D.  Thoreau, 

•       24 

14. 

Santa  Croce, 

John  Ruskin,     . 

•       27 

15. 

Brussels, 

John  Lothrop  Motley, 

30 

16. 

Two  Early  Apollos, 

Walter  Pater, 

•       31 

17. 

A  Girl's  Face, 

Theodore  Watts-Dtenton 

.       33 

18. 

George  the  Fourth, 

William          Makepeact 

Thackeray, 

•       35 

19. 

An  Edinburgh  Trio, 

James  M.  Barrie,    . 

•       37 

20. 

The  Cliff,      . 

Edgar  Allan  Poe, 

.       38 

VI 


CONTENTS. 


21.  A  Marble  Bacchus, 

22.  A  Lady  with  Pearls,    . 

23.  The     Harpsichord     of 

Yeddo,       . 

24.  Opium  Dreams,    . 

25.  An   Illustration  of  the 


Vernon  Lee, 
Henry  James, 

George  Auriol, 
Thomas  De  Quincey, 


Non-Thinking  Level,         William  Jajnes, 


PAGE 

39 
42 

45 
47 

51 


CHAPTER  IL 


NARRATION. 


26. 

The    Passage    of     the 

Mountains, 

Francis  Parkman, 

55 

27. 

The  Capture  of  a  Trout. 

R.  D.  Blackmore,    . 

73 

28. 

An     Evening    at    the 

William          Makepeace 

Theater,    . 

Thackeray, 

80 

29. 

A  Rescue, 

R.  D.  Blackinore,    . 

86 

30. 

The     Five     Days     in 

Milan, 

W.  /.  Stillman, 

93 

31. 

The    Discovery    of    a 

Secret, 

George  Meredith,    . 

108 

32. 

The     Death     of     the 

Dauphin, 

Alphonse  Daudet, 

122 

CHAPTER  HL 

EXPOSITION. 

33- 

The  Method  of  Scien- 

tific Investigation,    . 

Thomas  Henry  Huxley, 

127 

34 

Earth  -  Worms         and 

Their  Function, 

Charles  Darwin, 

138 

35 

The  Character  of  Wil- 

Thomas Babington  Ma- 

liam  of  Orange, 

caulay,    . 

144 

36,  The  Protection  of  Elec- 
trical Apparatus 
against  Lightning,  . 


Alexander  fay  Wuris,        158 


CONTENTS. 


vu 


37.  Marconi's        Wireless 

Telegraph, 

38.  The  Town-Meeting.     . 

39.  The  Coffee-House, 

40.  The    First    Period    of 

Greek  Art, 

41.  Tuscan  Sculpture, 

42.  The  Plastic  Nature  of 

Greek  Art  and  Ora- 
tory, .... 

43.  The  Function  of  Edu- 

cation   in  a    Demo- 
cratic Society,  . 

44.  Causes  of  Failure, 

45.  The    Two    Races    of 

Men, 

46.  The  Look  of  a  Gentle- 

man, 

47.  English  and  American 

Gentlemen, 

48.  The  Olympians,   . 

49.  Rain 


Cleveland  Moffett^  .     168 

John  Fiske,        .        .        .174 
Thomas  Babington  Ma- 

caulay,     .        .        .178 


Walter  Pater, 
Vernon  Lee, 


R.  C.Jebb, 


Charles  W.  Eliot, 
Be7ija7nm  Jowett, 

Charles  Lamb, 


182 
184 


187 


193 
200 

207 


William  Hazlitt,     .        .215 
Thomas  Wefitworth  Hig- 

ginson,    .        .        .     221 
Kenneth  Grahame,  .     225 

Alice  Meynell,  .        .     230 


CHAPTER  IV 


David  Dudley  Field,      .    237 


ARGUMENTATION. 

50.  Specimen  Brief  (of  51), 233 

51.  The     Child    and    the 

State, 

52.  The  Manly  Virtues  and 

Practical  Politics,     . 

53.  On  the  Repeal  of  the 

Union  with  Ireland, 

54.  Defense      of     Patrick 

Finney, 


249 


Theodore  Roosevelt, 
Thomas    Babington  Ma- 
caul  ay,  .        ,     260 


John  Philpot  Cur  ran,     .    281 


Vin  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

55.  Nil  Nisi  Bonum,  .        .         William  Makepeace 

Thackeray,      .        .317 

56.  The  End  of  George  the         William  Makepeace 

Third,       .        .        .  Thackeray,     .       .    329 

CHAPTER  V. 

CRITICISM. 

57.  The  Action  of  Paradise 

Lost,  .        .        .       Joseph  Addison,       .        .    335 

58.  The  Rank  of  Emerson,        Matthew  Arnold,    .         .     341 

59.  Discontinuance  of  the         Thomas  Wentworth  Hig- 

Guide-Board,    .         .  ginson,  .        .     343 

60.  On  a  Peal  of  Bells,       .         William  Makepeace 

Thackeray,     ,        .350 
List  of  Suggested  Exercises, 365 


SPECIMENS  OF  THE  FORMS 
OF  DISCOURSE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

DESCRIPTION. 
I.— B  Cottage. 

EDGAR   ALLAN    POE. 

The  point  of  view  from  which  I  first  saw  the  val- 
ley, was  not  altogether,  although  it  was  nearly,  the 
best  point  from  which  to  survey  the  house.  I  will 
therefore  describe  it  as  I  afterwards  saw  it — from  a 
5  position  on  the  stone  wall  at  the  southern  extreme 
of  the  ampitheater. 

The  main  building  was  about  twenty-four  feet 
long  and  sixteen  broad — certainly  not  more.  Its 
total  height,  from  the  ground  to  the  apex  of  the 

loroof,  could  not  have  exceeded  eighteen  feet.  To 
the  west  end  of  this  structure  was  attached  one 
about  a  third  smaller  in  all  its  proportions — the  line 
of  its  front  standing  back  about  two  yards  from  that 
of  the  larger  house;  and  the  line  of  its  roof,  of 

15  course,  being  considerably  depressed  below  that  of 
the  roof  adjoining.  At  right  angles  to  these  build- 
ings, and  from  the  rear  of  the  main  one — not  ex- 
actly in  the  middle — extended  a  third  compartment, 


«  DESCRIPTION. 

very  small — being,  in  general,  one-third  less  than 
the  western  wing.  The  roofs  of  the  two  larger  were 
very  steep — sweeping  down  from  the  ridge-beam 
with  a  long  concave  curve,  and  extending  at  least 
four  feet  beyond  the  walls  in  front,  so  as  to  form  the  5 
roofs  of  two  piazzas.  These  latter  roofs,  of  course, 
needed  no  support;  but  as  they  had  the  air  of  need- 
ing it,  slight  and  perfectly  plain  pillars  were  inserted 
at  the  corners  alone.  The  roof  of  the  northern 
wing  was  merely  an  extension  of  a  portion  of  the  10 
main  roof.  Between  the  chief  building  and  western 
wing  arose  a  very  tall  and  rather  slender  square 
chimney  of  hard  Dutch  bricks,  alternately  black 
and  red — a  slight  cornice  of  projecting  bricks  at 
the  top.  Over  the  gables  the  roofs  also  projected  15 
very  much — in  the  main  building  about  four  feet  to 
the  east  and  two  to  the  west.  The  principal  door 
was  not  exactly  in  the  main  division,  being  a  little 
to  the  east — while  the  two  windows  were  to  the 
west.  These  latter  did  not  extend  to  the  floor,  but  20 
were  much  longer  and  narrower  than  usual — they 
had  single  shutters  like  doors — the  panes  were  of 
lozenge  form,  but  quite  large.  The  door  itself  had 
its  upper  half  of  glass,  also  in  lozenge  panes — a 
movable  shutter  secured  it  at  night.  The  door  to  25 
the  west  wing  was  in  its  gable,  and  quite  simple — a 
single  window  looked  out  to  the  south.  There  was 
no  external  door  to  the  north  wing,  and  it  also  had 
only  one  window  to  the  east. 

The  blank  wall  of  the  eastern  gable  was  relieved  30 
by   stairs   (with   a  balustrade)   running   diagonally 
across  it — the  ascent  being  from  the  south.     Under 
cover  of  the  widely  projecting  eave  these  steps  gave 
access  to  a  door  leading  into  the  garret,  or  rather 


CHARLES   THE  FIFTH.  3 

loft — for  it  was  lighted  only  by  a  single  window  to 
the  north,  and  seemed  to  have  been  intended  as  a 
store  room. 
The  piazzas  of  the  main  building  and  western 

5  wing  had  no  floors,  as  is  usual ;  but  at  the  doors  and 
at  each  window,  large,  flat,  irregular  slabs  of  gran- 
ite lay  imbedded  in  the  delicious  turf,  affording 
comfortable  footing  in  all  weather.  Excellent 
paths  of  the  same  material — not  nicely  adapted,  but 

lowith  the  velvety  sod  filling  frequent  intervals  be- 
tween the  stones,  led  hither  and  thither  from  the 
house,  to  a  crystal  spring  about  five  paces  off,  to 
the  road,  or  to  one  or  two  out-houses  that  lay  to 
the  north,  beyond  the  brook,  and  were  thoroughly 

15  concealed  by  a  few  locusts  and  catalpas. 

— Landor's  Cottage. 

Notes.  —This  description  of  the  exterior  of  a  building 
proceeds  by  enumeration  of  all  the  details  that  can  be 
seen  from  a  certain  point  of  view.  But  Poe  is  careful  to 
give  first  what  may  be  called  the  larger  details,  namely 

20 the  general  dimensions  of  the  house,  because  these  are 
what  an  observer  sees  first.  Details  of  form  and  out- 
line are  then  set  down  with  some  care,  and  finally  the 
immediate  environment  of  the  house  is  touched  upon. 
There  is  very  little  suggestion  of  color.     The  description  is 

25  not  technical,  but  attains  as  much  precision  as  is  consistent 
with  artistic  purpose. 

2.— Cbarles  ^be  jFiftb. 

JOHN   LOTHROP   MOTLEY. 

Charles  the  Fifth  was  then  fifty-five  years  and 
eight  months  old;  but  he  was  already  decrepit  with 
premature  old  age.    He  was  of  about  the  middle 


4  DESCRIPTION. 

height,  and  had  been  athletic  and  well-proportioned. 
Broad  in  the  shoulders,  deep  in  the  chest,  thin  in 
the  flank,  very  muscular  in  the  arms  and  legs,  he 
had  been  able  to  match  himself  with  all  competitors 
in  the  tourney  and  the  ring,  and  to  vanquish  the  5 
bull  with  his  own  hand  in  the  favorite  national 
amusement  of  Spain.  He  had  been  able  in  the  field 
to  do  the  duty  of  captain  and  soldier,  to  endure 
fatigue  and  exposure,  and  every  privation  except 
fasting.  These  personal  advantages  were  now  de- 10 
parted.  Crippled  in  hands,  knees,  and  legs,  he  sup- 
ported himself  with  difficulty  upon  a  crutch,  with 
the  aid  of  an  attendant's  shoulder.  In  face  he  had 
always  been  extremely  ugly,  and  time  had  certainly 
not  improved  his  physiognomy.  His  hair,  once  of  15 
a  light  color,  was  now  white  with  age,  close-clipped, 
and  bristling;  his  beard  was  gray,  coarse,  and 
shaggy.  His  forehead  was  spacious  and  command- 
ing; the  eye  was  dark-blue,  with  an  expression  both 
majestic  and  benignant.  His  nose  was  aquiline  but  20 
crooked.  The  lower  part  of  his  face  was  famous  for 
its  deformity.  The  under  lip,  a  Burgundian  inheri- 
tance, as  faithfully  transmitted  as  the  duchy  and 
county,  was  heavy  and  hanging;  the  lower  jaw 
protruding  so  far  beyond  the  upper,  that  it  was  im-  25 
possible  for  him  to  bring  together  the  few  frag- 
ments of  teeth  which  still  remained,  or  to  speak  a 
whole  sentence  in  an  intelligible  voice.  Eating  and 
talking,  occupations  to  which  he  was  always  much 
addicted,  were  becoming  daily  more  arduous,  in  30 
consequence  of  this  original  defect,  which  now 
seemed  hardly  human,  but  rather  an  original  de- 
formity. 

—  The  Rise  of  the  DuUh  Republic. 


A    STRAWBERRY.  5 

Notes. — The  method  of  description  by  enumeration  is 
here  artistically  applied  to  a  person.  Although  Motley 
allows  very  few  details  of  Charles's  appearance  to  escape 
mention,  he  so  groups  them  that  they  seem  vividly  char- 
5  acteristic.  First  he  speaks  of  the  king's  athletic  build, 
contrasting  his  former  vigor  with  his  present  crippled  con- 
dition. He  then  enumerates  the  royal  features,  coming 
last  to  the  most  striking  and  ugly.  Note  furthermore  that 
each  of  the  two  groups  of  detail  begins  with  a  word  or  two 
lo  of  general  impression ;  the  king's  body  suffered  from 
"  premature  old  age,"  and  his  features  were  "extremely 
ugly." 

3.— B  Strawberry. 

R.    D.    BLACKMORE. 

That  is  the  time  for  the  true  fruit-lover  to  try  the 
taste  of  a  strawberry.    It  should  be  one  that  refused 

^5  to  ripen  in  the  gross  heat  of  yesterday,  but  has  been 
slowly  fostering  goodness,  with  the  attestation  of 
the  stars.  And  now  (if  it  has  been  properly  man- 
aged, properly  picked  without  touch  of  hand,  and 
not  laid  down  profanely),  when  the  sun  comes  over 

2othe  top  of  the  hedge,  the  look  of  that  strawberry 
will  be  this — at  least,  if  it  is  of  a  proper  sort:  the 
beard  of  the  footstalk  will  be  stiff,  the  sepals  of  the 
calyx  moist  and  crisp,  the  neck  will  show  a  narrow 
band  of  varnish,  where  the  dew  could  find  no  hold, 

25  the  belly  of  the  fruit  will  be  sleek  and  gentle,  firm, 
however,  to  accept  its  fate;  but  the  back  that  has 
dealt  with  the  dew,  and  the  sides  where  the  color  of 
the  back  slopes  downward,  upon  them  such  a  gloss 
of  cold  and  diamond  chastity  will  lie  that  the  hu- 

30  man  lips  get  out  of  patience  with  the  eyes  in  no 
time. 

— Alice  Lorraine. 


6  DESCRIPTION. 

Notes. — The  method  of  detail  is  applied  to  a  fruit.  No 
unfamiliar  botanical  terms  are  employed,  but  the  form  and 
texture  of  the  berry  are  indicated  with  much  exactness. 
No  effort  is  made  to  describe  the  taste  of  the  fruit,  beyond 
its  fresh  chill  ;  but  the  delicious  quality  is  suggested  by  5 
stating  the  effect  of  the  sight  upon  the  fruit-lover.  The 
diction  of  the  passage  is  over-ambitious,  with  humorous 
intent. 

4.— Q:be  Source  ot  tbe  Brrelron.  1fcc  ipfnnacles, 
lowers,  and  Cbadms  ot  tbe  <3laciec  des  :A3old. 
passage  to  tbe  /Iftontanvert.' 

JOHN  TYNDALL. 

Our  preparatory  studies  are  for  the  present  ended, 
and  thus  informed,  let  us  approach  the  Alps,  iq 
Through  the  village  of  Chamouni,  in  Savoy,  a  river 
rushes  which  is  called  the  Arve.  Let  us  trace  this 
river  backwards  from  Chamouni.  At  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  village  the  river  forks;  one  of  its 
branches  still  continues  to  be  called  the  Arve,  the  15 
other  is  the  Arveiron.  Following  this  latter  we 
come  to  what  is  called  the  "  source  of  the  Arveiron  " 
— a  short  hour's  walk  from  Chamouni.  Here,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  Rhone  already  referred  to,  you  are 
fronted  by  a  huge  mass  of  ice,  the  end  of  a  glacier,  20 
and  from  an  arch  in  the  ice  the  Arveiron  issues.  Do 
not  trust  the  arch  in  summer.  Its  roof  falls  at  in- 
tervals with  a  startling  crash,  and  would  infallibly 
crush  any  person  on  whom  it  might  fall. 

We  must  now  be  observant.     Looking  about  us  25 
here,  we  find  in  front  of  the  ice  curious  heaps  and 
ridges  of  debris,  which  are  more  or  less  concentric. 

>  Reprinted  from  the  "  Forms  of  Water,"  by  permission  of  Messrs. 
p.  Appleton  4b  Co. 


THE   SOURCE   OF   THE  ARVEIRON.  t 

These  are  the  terminal  moraines  of  the  glacier.    We 
shall  examine  them  subsequently. 

We  now  turn  to  the  left,  and  ascend  the  slope  be- 
side the  glacier.     As  we  ascend  we  get  a  better 

5  view,  and  find  that  the  ice  here  fills  a  narrow  valley. 
We  come  upon  another  singular  ridge,  not  of  fresh 
debris,  like  those  lower  down,  but  covered  in  part 
with  trees,  and  appearing  to  be  literally  as  "  old  as 
the   hills."     It   tells   a   wonderful   tale.     We   soon 

lo  satisfy  ourselves  that  the  ridge  is  an  ancient  mo- 
raine, and  at  once  conclude  that  the  glacier,  at  some 
former  period  of  its  existence,  was  vastly  larger  than 
it  is  now.  This  old  moraine  stretches  right  across 
the  main  valley,  and  abuts  against  the  mountains  at 

15  the  opposite  side. 

Having  passed  the  terminal  portion  of  the  gla- 
cier, which  is  covered  with  stones  and  rubbish,  we 
find  ourselves  beside  a  very  wonderful  exhibition  of 
ice.     The  glacier  descends  a  steep  gorge,  and  in  do- 

2oing  so  is  riven  and  broken  in  the  most  extraordi- 
nary manner.  Here  are  towers,  and  pinnacles,  and 
fantastic  shapes  wrought  out  by  the  action  of  the 
weather,  which  put  one  in  mind  of  rude  sculpture. 
.    .    .    From  deep  chasms  in  the  glacier  issues  a 

25  delicate  shimmer  of  blue  light.  At  times  we  hear 
a  sound  like  thunder,  which  arises  either  from  the 
falling  of  a  tower  of  ice,  or  from  the  tumble  of  a 
huge  stone  into  a  chasm.  The  glacier  maintains 
this  wild  and  chaotic  character  for  some  time;  and 

30  the  best  iceman  would  find  himself  defeated  in  any 
attempt  to  get  along  it. 

We  reach  a  place  called  the  Chapeau,  where,  if 
we  wish,  we  can  have  refreshment  in  a  little  moun- 
tain hut.     We  then  pass  the  Mauvais  Pas,  a  precipi- 


8  DESCRIPTION. 

tous  rock,  on  the  face  of  which  steps  are  hewn,  and 
the  unpractioed  traveler  is  assisted  by  a  rope.  We 
pursue  our  journey,  partly  along  the  mountain  side, 
and  partly  along  a  ridge  of  singularly  artificial  as- 
pect— a  lateral  moraine.  We  at  length  face  a  house  b 
perched  upon  an  eminence  at  the  opposite  side  of 
the  glacier.  This  is  the  auberge  of  the  Montan- 
vert,  well  known  to  all  visitors  to  this  portion  of  the 
Alps. 

Here  we  cross  the  glacier.  I  should  have  toldio 
you  that  its  lower  part,  including  the  broken  por- 
tion we  have  passed,  is  called  the  Glacier  des  Bois; 
while  the  place  that  we  are  now  about  to  cross  is  the 
beginning  of  the  Mer  de  Glace.  You  feel  that  this 
term  is  not  quite  appropriate,  for  the  glacier  here  15 
is  much  more  like  a  river  of  ice  than  a  sea.  The 
valley  which  it  fills  is  about  half  a  mile  wide. 

The  ice  may  be  riven  where  we  enter  upon  it,  but 
with  the  necessary  care  there  is  no  difficulty  in  cross- 
ing this  portion  of  the  Mer  de  Glace.     The  clefts  20 
and  chasms  in  the  ice  are  called  crevasses;  we  shall 
make  their  acquaintance  on  a  grander  scale  by  and 

by. 

Look  up  and  down  this  side  of  the  glacier.  It 
is  considerably  riven,  but  as  we  advance  the  crev-  25 
asses  will  diminish,  and  we  shall  find  very  few  of 
them  at  the  other  side.  Note  this  for  future  use. 
The  ice  is  at  first  dirty;  but  the  dirt  soon  disap- 
pears, and  you  come  upon  the  clean  crisp  surface 
of  the  glacier.  You  have  already  noticed  that  the  30 
clean  ice  is  white,  and  that  from  a  distance  it  re- 
sembles snow  rather  than  ice.  This  is  caused  by 
the  breaking  up  of  the  surface  by  the  solar  heat. 
When  you  pound  transparent  rock-salt  into  powder 


THE  DA  WN  IN   TEMPERA  TE   CLIMA  TES.  9 

it  is  as  white  as  table-salt,  and  it  is  the  minute  As- 
suring of  the  surface  of  the  glacier  by  the  sun's 
rays  that  causes  it  to  appear  white.  Within  the  gla- 
cier the  ice  is  transparent.  After  an  exhilarating 
5  passage  we  get  upon  the  opposite  lateral  moraine, 
and  ascend  the  steep  slope  from  it  to  the  Montan- 
vert  Inn. 

Notes. — This  is  obviously  description  by  means  of  narra- 
tive.    The  landscape  is  studied  as  a  sort  of  panorama,  in 
lo  order  to  do  justice  to  the  many  details  which  are  impor- 
tant to  the  author's  purpose — the  popular  presentation  of  a 
scientific  topic.     Every  method  of  enumeration,  since  it 
draws  the   reader's  attention  first  to  one  point,  then    to 
another,  can  hardly  help  blurring,  or  missing,  the  impres- 
ts sion    of  the    whole  ;    but  enumerative  description  which 
takes  on  the  color  of  narrative  is  the  most  natural  way 
of    describing  where    large    numbers    of  particulars    are 
concerned.     A    famous    example    is   that  passage  in  the 
eighteenth   Iliad  where  the  minutiae  of  Achilles'  golden 
20  shield    are  described  by  the  narrative  of  their    forging 
under  the  hand  of  Vulcan. 


5,—Z\ie  Dawn  tn  tTempcrate  Climates,' 

JOHN   C.   VAN    DYKE. 

But  the  dawn  in  our  temperate  clime  is  not  so  un- 
usual in  appearance.  It  is  with  us  the  gradual  ex- 
pansion and  intensifying  of  radiance.  The  light  is 
25  a  soft,  lustrous  one,  illuminating  the  earth  entirely 
by  reflection.  While  the  sun  is  below  the  horizon 
no  direct  rays  can  possibly  reach  us.  The  shafts 
are  shot  up  against  the  blue  vault,  and  from  this 

>  Reprinted  from  "  Nature  for  Its  Own  Sake,"  by  permission  of 

Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons, 


lo  DESCRIPTION. 

transparent  blue  of  atmosphere  they  are  reflected 
back  to  earth.  It  is  not  a  bright  or  sharp  reflection. 
The  rays  are  bent  and  thrown  back  only  by  the  in- 
finitesimal particles  that  float  in  the  upper  air. 
Even  when  the  shafts  strike  a  cloud  they  simply  5 
make  it  glow  like  a  great  pearl,  and  the  glow  is  in- 
finitely more  delicate  for  its  surrounding  of  trans- 
lucent atmosphere.  Yet  the  great  vault  is  illu- 
mined, and,  as  the  sun  rises  higher,  far  to  the  north 
and  far  to  the  south,  halfway  around  the  circle,  a  xg 
tapestry  of  silver  and  gold  is  weaving  on  a  blue- 
gray  ground,  and  the  dark  ultramarine  of  the  west 
turns  a  shade  paler  and  seems  to  lift  into  space  as 
the  light  grows  stronger.  How  like  the  flooding  of 
the  tide  this  light  drifts  up,  and  in  this  great  aerial  15 
ocean  bringing  with  it  warmth  and  color!  Sound- 
less and  surgeless,  rolling  in  waves  too  translucent 
to  be  seen,  rising  higher  and  higher,  yet  meeting 
with  no  ultimate  shore,  how  gloriously  it  sweeps  up 
and  over  the  world!  How  swiftly  even  the 20 
"  meager  cloddy  earth  "  borrows  a  splendor  from 
above  and  reflects  the  flush  of  light  and  color!  The 
mists  stir,  the  trees  tremble  gently,  the  dew  slips 
from  leaf  to  stem,  and  the  whole  globe  seems  to 
awaken  from  slumber.  25 

There  is  nothing  more  beautiful  in  all  nature  than 
this  flooding  of  light  across  the  sky,  across  the 
earth;  yet  even  as  we  watch  it  a  great  change  takes 
place.  The  sun  peers  over  the  horizon  and  the  first 
beam  of  light  strikes  full  upon  the  mountain's  high- 50 
est  minaret  of  rock,  splashing  it  with  a  pale  golden 
hue.  At  once  the  hue  begins  to  creep  down  from 
the  mountain-top,  striking  the  oaks  and  cedars  one 
by  one  with  yellow  shafts  until  the  whole  hillside 


THE  DAWN  IN   TEMPERATE   CLIMATES.        n 

is  mantled  with  its  color.  Swiftly  the  light  spreads 
to  the  valley,  and  in  a  few  moments  it  falls  upon  the 
fields  and  meadows.  Immediately  begins  the  phe- 
nomenon of  light  being  broken  and  obstructed  by 
5  opaque  bodies  such  as  hills  and  trees,  and  we  have 
the  efifect  of  light-and-shade.  Immediately,  too, 
the  swift  vibration  of  those  points  of  light  produc- 
tive of  color  is  increased,  and  we  have  the  brilliant 
hues  that  mark  the  earth  under  sunshine.     Every 

lolake  and  stream  and  open  sea  warms  in  color  and 
glances  the  image  of  the  sun,  and  every  hillside  and 
mountain  crag  receives  the  stain  of  gold.  Not  the 
great  objects  alone,  but  the  infinitely  little,  the  pale 
windflower,  the  lowly  buttercup,  the  yellow  cen- 

15  tered  daisy,  the  tiny  violet,  the  leaf-whorl  of  the 
moss,  all  put  on  their  brightest  garments,  each  one 
lifting  its  head  to  the  sun  as  the  great  glory  of  the 
universe. 

As  the  sun  rises  higher  the  splendor  becomes 

20  more  widely  dififused.  The  color  of  the  rose  leaps 
to  a  high  pitch,  the  top  of  the  willow  is  a  mass  of 
silver,  the  poplar  seems  to  shake  light  from  its 
leaves  as  though  they  were  trembling  little  mirrors. 
By  contrast  the  shadows  across  the  lawn  and  along 

25  the  mountain  side  seem  darker,  though  in  reality 
they  are  lighter;  and  the  light  itself  may  seem  fainter 
because  widely  dififused,  whereas  it  is  stronger 
and  fiercer.  By  ten  o'clock  the  sun  is  quite  high  in 
the   heavens.     Heat  is   radiating  from   the   earth. 

30  Strata  of  warm  air  are  forming  along  the  ground, 
moving  uneasily  hither  and  thither  in  their  search 
for  an  exit  through  the  colder  air  to  the  upper  re- 
gions. Dust  and  moisture,  too,  are  rising;  and  by 
noon  perhaps  there  is  a  haze  lying  along  the  hills 


12  DESCRIPTION. 

and  meadows,  the  distant  valleys  look  gray  and 
warm  in  the  sunlight,  the  mountains  beyond  them 
are  faintly  blue,  the  sky  itself  looks  yellow  or  rosy. 
Color  is  everywhere,  more  predominant  than  in  the 
morning,  but  less  contrasted,  because  the  atmos-  5 
phere  has  blended  and  toned  all  nature  to  its  own 
golden  hue. 

Notes. — In  the  selection  from  Tyndall,  the  enumeration 
by  means  of  narrative  concerned  stationary  objects,  the 
spectators  themselves  being  in  motion.  In  the  present  10 
selection  the  details  are  those  of  moving  phenomena,  the 
observer  being  stationary.  The  passage  is  rich  in  terms 
for  color  and  atmospheric  effects.  The  range  of  the 
vocabulary  of  motion  is  also  noticeable.  It  is  a  curious 
fact  that  even  in  description  of  stationary  objects  (as  of  15 
Poe's  cottage),  the  vocabulary  is  necessarily  "  motor  "  to  a 
high  degree.  When  a  roof  is  said  to  "  sweep  down  in  along 
curve,"  what  is  really  being  described  is  a  motion  of  the 
eye.  Ruskin  has  pointed  out  that  Shelley's  power  of 
describing  natural  objects  lies  mainly  in  his  words  of  20 
motion.  It  should  further  be  noted  that  the  most  beauti- 
ful motor  image  in  the  selection,  that  of  the  tide  of  light,  is 
effective  because  it  is  familiar.  "Familiar"  does  not 
mean  "  trite."  "  Sparkling  rivulets  "  and  "pearly  dews  " 
and  "lurid  glows"  are  the  bane  of  freshman  compo- 25 
sitions.  The  writer  whose  eye  is  on  the  object  will  use 
his  own  words,  rather  than  those  found  in  ladies'  journals 
of  fifty  years  ago. 

6.— ©erman  an&  Celt. 

JOHN    LOTHROP   MOTLEY. 

Physically  the  two  races  resembled  each  other. 
Both  were  of  vast  stature.     The  gigantic  Gaul  de-30 
rided  the  Roman  soldiers  as  a  band  of  pygmies. 


GERMAN  AND   CELT.  13 

The  German  excited  astonishment  by  his  huge 
body  and  muscular  limbs.  Both  were  fair,  with 
fierce  blue  eyes,  but  the  Celt  had  yellow  hair  float- 
ing over  his  shoulders,  and  the  German  long  locks 
5  of  fiery  red,  which  he  even  dyed  with  woad  to 
heighten  the  favorite  color,  and  wore  twisted  into 
a  war-knot  upon  the  top  of  his  head.  Here  the 
German's  love  of  finery  ceased.  A  simple  tunic, 
fastened  at  his  throat  with  a  thorn,  while  his  other 

lo  garments  defined  and  gave  full  play  to  his  limbs, 
completed  his  costume.  The  Gaul,  on  the  contrary, 
was  so  fond  of  dress  that  the  Romans  divided  his 
race  respectively  into  long-haired,  breeched,  and 
gowned   Gaul;   (Gallia   comata,   braccata,   togata). 

15  He  was  fond  of  brilliant  and  parti-colored  clothes, 
a  taste  which  survives  in  the  Highlander's  costumg. 
He  covered  his  neck  and  arms  with  golden  chains. 
The  simple  and  ferocious  German  wore  no  decora- 
tion save  his  iron  ring,  from  which  his  first  homi- 

2ocide  relieved  him.  The  Gaul  was  irascible,  furious 
in  his  wrath,  but  less  formidable  in  a  sustained  con- 
flict with  a  powerful  foe.  "  All  the  Gauls  are  of 
very  high  stature,"  says  a  soldier  whO'  fought  under 
Julian      (Amm.   Marcel,   xv.    12.     i).     "  They  are 

25  white,  golden-haired,  terrible  in  the  fierceness  of 
their  eyes,  greedy  of  quarrels,  bragging  and  inso- 
lent. A  band  of  strangers  could  not  resist  one  of 
them  in  a  brawl,  assisted  by  his  strong,  blue-eyed 
wife,    especially    when    she   begins,    gnashing   her 

30  teeth,  her  neck  swollen,  brandishing  her  vast  and 
snowy  arms,  and  kicking  with  her  heels  at  the  same 
time,  to  deliver  her  fisticuffs,  like  bolts  from  the 
twisted  strings  of  a  catapult.  The  voices  of  many 
are  threatening  and  formidable.    They  are  quick  to 


14  DESCRIPTION. 

anger,  but  quickly  appeased.  All  are  clean  in  their 
persons;  nor  among  them  is  ever  seen  any  man  or 
woman,  as  elsewhere,  squalid  in  ragged  garments. 
At  all  ages  they  are  apt  for  military  service.  The 
old  man  goes  forth  to  the  fight  with  equal  strength  5 
of  breast,  with  limbs  as  hardened  by  cold  and  assid- 
uous labor,  and  as  contemptuous  of  all  dangers,  as 
the  young.  Not  one  of  them,  as  in  Italy  is  often  the 
case,  was  ever  known  to  cut  off  his  thumbs  to  avoid 
the  service  of  Mars."  j^ 

—  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic. 

Notes. — Motley  avoids  tedious  masses  of  details  by  carry 
ing  along  two  enumerations  side  by  side,  so  that  the  atten 
tion  is  rested  by  repeated  diversion.  Indeed,  the  passage 
owes  most  of  its  power  to  the  principle  of  comparison  and 
contrast.  Form  is  compared  with  form,  and  both  images  are  15 
sharpened  by  the  interchange  of  mental  energy.  Colors 
are  heightened  by  contrast  with  other  colors,  manners  by 
contrast  with  other  manners.  The  whole  passage  reminds 
us  that  the  process  of  knowledge  is  by  comparison,  and 
explains  the  passion  for  antithesis  which  sometimes  seizes  20 
on  a  whole  generation  of  writers  ;  the  passion  for  ' '  look- 
ing on  this  picture,  then  on  that,"  and  for  balancing  every 
sentence. 

7.— Common  G:rees  Compared.' 

JOHN   C.  VAN   DYKE. 

The  botanist  has  classed,  ordered,  sectioned,  and 
specied  the  different  trees,  and  christened  each  with  25 
a  Latinized  name;  but  I  have  no  thought  of  follow- 
ing his  scientific  arrangement  nor  of  catalogfuing  or 

'  Reprinted  from  "  Nature  for  Its  Own  Sake,"  by  permission  of 
Messrs.  Charles  Scnbner's  Sons. 


COMMON   TREES  COMPARED.  IS 

classifying  the  different  varieties  of  trees.  My  task 
has  to  do  with  surface  appearances.  Moreover,  the 
general  character  of  a  tree  is  revealed  by  its  form, 
color,  or  texture;  and  it  may  be  assumed  that  the 

5  average  person  recognizes  it  by  these  features  rather 
than  by  reducing  it  to  botanical  class  and  species. 
How  much  depends  upon  outline,  hue,  and  surface, 
and  what  distinguishing  ear-marks  these  are,  may 
be  suggested  by  a  few  haphazard  descriptions  of  the 

lo  common  trees  about  us. 

The  spruce,  for  instance,  is  a  straight-trunked 
tree  that  throws  out  branches  that  ride  upward  like 
crescents,  and  bear  needles  that  hang  downward  like 
fringes.     Its  outline,  when  seen  in  silhouette  against 

15  the  sky,  is  pyramidal;  its  color  is  dark  green,  often 
blue-green  when  seen  from  a  distance,  and  at  twi- 
light it  is  cold-purple.  Tlie  pine  is  like  it,  but  its 
branches  are  not  so  crescent-shaped,  and  the  nee- 
dles push  outward  in  clusters  rather  than  droop 

20  downward  in  fringes.  It  is  of  a  darker  color  than 
the  spruce,  and  at  night  or  under  shadow  it  is  bluer. 
The  poplar  is  a  tall  tree,  and  often  a  straight  one, 
but  the  branches  do  not  swing  outward  like  the 
pine.    They  seek  rather  to  grow  straight  beside  the 

25  parent  stem,  and  the  twigs  and  the  sharp-pointed 
foliage  surround  the  branches  as  a  loose  sleeve  the 
arm  of  a  woman.  It  is  white-trunked,  with  a  le^ 
that  is  bright  green  on  one  side  and  silvery  green  on 
the  other  side.    The  black  oak  grows  a  straight 

30  trunk  with  limbs  that  shoot  out  almost  at  right  an- 
gles ;  but  the  white  oak  and  the  pin  oak  are  crooked 
and  twisted,  their  harsh  trunks  are  often  broken 
with  boles,  and  their  limbs  may  take  angle  lines 
or  prong  out  like  the  horns  of  a  deer.    Very  differ- 


l6  DESCRIPTION. 

ent  from  such  an  angular  growth  as  the  oak  is  the 
stately  elm,  its  long  limbs  branching  and  falling  so 
gracefully,  the  weeping  willow  that  throws  its 
branches  up  and  over  like  the  spray  from  a  foun- 
tain, the  round,  ball-shaped  horse-chestnut,  or  the  5 
long-armed,  white-breasted  birch  of  the  mountains. 

Notes. — Here  the  method  of  comparison  is  applied,  not 
to  only  two  objects,  but  to  ten.  The  fact  that  the  descrip- 
tion is  nevertheless  brief  rises  from  its  being  limited  to 
certain  details.  The  objects  are  trees,  and  the  matters  to  lo 
be  compared  are  carefully  announced  at  the  start  as  "  out- 
line, hue,  and  surface."  With  much  compression  of  phrase 
the  author  distinguishes  each  tree  in  these  respects. 


Q—Z\iZ  jfajaDc  Of  St.  /iRarft's. 

JOHN   RUSKIN. 

And  round  the  walls  of  the  porches  there  are  set 
pillars  of  variegated  stones,  jasper,  and  porphyry,  15 
and  deep  green  serpentine  spotted  with  flakes  of 
snow,  and  marbles,  that  half  refuse  and  half  yield  to 
the  sunshine,  Cleopatra-like,  "  their  bluest  veins  to 
kiss  " — the  shadow,  as  it  steals  back  from  them,  re- 
vealing line  after  line  of  azure  undulation,  as  a  re- 20 
ceding  tide  leaves  the  waved  sand;  their  capitals  rich 
with  interwoven  tracery,  rooted  knots  of  herbage, 
and  drifting  leaves  of  acanthus  and  vine,  and  mys- 
tical signs,  all  beginning  and  ending  in  the  Cross; 
and  above  them,  in  the  broad  archivolts,  a  continu-2s 
ous  chain  of  language  and  of  life — angels,  and  the 
signs  of  heaven,  and  the  labors  of  men,  each  in  its 
appointed  season  upon  the  earth;  and  above  these, 
another  range  of  glittering  pinnacles,  mixed  with 


A   MA  Y  AFTERNOON.  1 7 

white  arches  edged  with  scarlet  flowers, — a  confu- 
sion of  delight,  amidst  which  the  breasts  of  the 
Greek  horses  are  seen  blazing  in  their  breadth  of 
golden  strength,  and  the  St.  Mark's  Lion,  lifted  on 
5  a  blue  field  covered  with  stars,  until  at  last,  as  if  in 
ecstasy,  the  crests  of  the  arches  break  into  a  mar- 
ble foam,  and  toss  themselves  far  into  the  blue  sky 
in  flashes  and  wreaths  of  sculptured  spray,  as  if  the 
breakers  on  the  Lido  shore  had  been  frost-bound 
lo  before  they  fell,  and  the  sea-nymphs  had  inlaid  them 
with  coral  and  amethyst. 

—  The  Stones  of  Venice. 

Notes. — The  selections  preceding  this  passage  from 
Ruskin  employ  various  forms  of  the  enumerative  method, 
but  all  with  a  view  to  such  precision  as  may  be  compati- 

15  ble  with  artistic  suggestion.  This  description  of  the  front 
of  St.  Mark's  aims  to  describe  the  beholder's  general 
impression  rather  than  any  particular.  His  glance 
catches  much  detail,  but  travels  upward  more  rapidly  than 
appreciation  is  able  to  follow,  and  so  the  result  is  "  a  con- 

20  fusion  of  delight."  The  appeal  is  almost  entirely  to  the 
eye,  and  mostly  to  the  color-sense  ;  but  the  main  lines  of 
the  picture  are  distinct  enough  to  give  some  feeling  of  its 
composition. 

9.— a  /IRas  Bfternoott.' 

JAMES  LANE  ALLEN. 

The  middle  of  a  fragrant  afternoon  of  May  in 
25  the  green  wilderness  of  Kentucky:  the  year  1795. 
High  overhead  ridges  of  many-peaked  cloud — 
the  gleaming,  wandering  Alps  of  the  blue  ether; 

'  From  "The  Choir  Invisible,"  copyright,  1897,  by  the  Macmillan 
Company. 


1 8  DESCRIPTION. 

outstretched  far  below,  the  warming  bosom  of  the 
earth,  throbbing  with  the  hope  of  maternity.  Two 
spirits  abroad  in  the  air,  encountering  each  other 
and  passing  into  one:  the  spirit  of  scentless  spring 
left  by  melting  snows  and  the  spirit  of  scented  sum-  5 
mer  born  with  the  earliest  buds.  The  road  through 
the  forest  one  of  those  wagon-tracks  that  were  be- 
ing opened  from  the  clearings  of  the  settlers,  and 
that  wound  along  beneath  trees  of  which  those  now 
seen  in  Kentucky  are  the  unworthy  survivors — oaks  10 
and  walnuts,  maples  and  elms,  centuries  old, 
gnarled,  massive,  drooping,  majestic,  through  whose 
arches  the  sun  hurled  down  only  some  solitary  spear 
of  gold,  and  over  whose  gray-mossed  roots  some 
cold  brook  crept  in  silence;  with  here  and  there  biI-15 
lowy  open  spaces  of  wild  rye,  buffalo  grass,  and 
clover  on  which  the  light  fell  in  sheets  of  radiance; 
with  other  spots  so  dim  that  for  ages  no  shoot  had 
sprung  from  the  deep  black  mold;  blown  to  and  fro 
across  this  wagon-road,  odors  of  ivy,  pennyroyal,  20 
and  mint,  mingled  with  the  fragrance  of  the  wild 
grape;  flitting  to  and  fro  across  it,  as  low  as  the 
violet-beds,  as  high  as  the  sycamores,  unnumbered 
kinds  of  birds,  some  of  which  like  the  paroquet  are 
long  since  vanished.  25 

Notes. — Here  we  have  another  impressionistic  use  of 
details,  but  the  effect  is  only  slightly  pictorial.  There  is 
a  wagon  track,  and  there  are  tree-trunks  and  arches  of 
foliage;  but  these  forms  linger  in  the  reader's  mind  less 
distinctly  than  the  successive  contrasts  of  light  and  shade,  30 
the  delicate  woodland  odors,  the  faint  suggestions  of 
delicious  coolness  and  warmth. 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF  ANTWERP.  1 9 

10.— Cbe  CatbcOral  of  Antwerp. 

JOHN  LOTHROP   MOTLEY. 

The  church,  placed  in  the  center  of  the  city,  with 
the  noisy  streets  of  the  busiest  metropolis  in  Europe 
eddying  around  its  walls,  was  a  sacred  island  in  the 
tumultuous  main.  Through  the  perpetual  twilight, 
5  tall  columnar  trunks  in  thick  profusion  grew  from 
a  floor  checkered  with  prismatic  lights  and  sepul- 
chral shadows.  Each  shaft  of  the  petrified  forest 
rose  to  a  preternatural  height,  their  many  branches 
intermingling  in  the  space  above,  to  form  an  im- 

lo  penetrable  canopy.  Foliage,  flowers,  and  fruit  of 
colossal  luxuriance,  strange  birds,  beasts,  griffins, 
and  chimeras  in  endless  multitudes,  the  rank  vegeta- 
tion, and  the  fantastic  zoology  of  a  fresher  or  fabu- 
lous world,  seemed  to  decorate  and  to  animate  the 

15  serried  trunks  and  pendant  branches,  while  the  shat- 
tering symphonies  or  dying  murmurs  of  the  organ 
suggested  the  rushing  of  the  wind  through  the  for- 
est— now  the  full  diapason  of  the  storm  and  now  the 
gentle  cadence  of  the  evening  breeze. 

20  Internally,  the  whole  church  was  rich  beyond  ex- 
pression. All  that  opulent  devotion  and  inventive 
ingenuity  could  devise,  in  wood,  bronze,  marble, 
silver,  gold,  precious  jewelry,  or  blazing  sacra- 
mental furniture,  had  been  profusely  lavished.     The 

25  penitential  tears  of  centuries  had  incrusted  the 
whole  interior  with  their  glittering  stalactites.  Di- 
vided into  five  naves,  with  external  rows  of  chapels, 
but  separated  by  no  screens  or  partitions,  the  great 
temple  forming  an  imposing  whole,  the  effect  was 

30  the  more  impressive,  the  vistas  almost  infinf^'i  in  ap« 


20  DESCRIPTION. 

pearance.  The  wealthy  citizens,  the  twenty-seven 
guilds,  the  six  military  associations,  the  rhythmical 
collegfes,  besides  many  other  secular  or  religious 
sodalities,  had  each  their  own  chapels  and  altars. 
Tombs  adorned  with  the  effigies  of  mailed  crusaders  5 
and  pious  dames  covered  the  floor,  tattered  banners 
J  hung  in  the  air,  the  escutcheons  of  the  Golden 
'  Fleece,  an  order  typical  of  Flemisli  industry,  but 
of  which  emperors  and  kings  were  proud  to  be  the 
chevaliers,  decorated  the  columns.  The  vast  andio 
beautifully  painted  windows  glowed  with  scrip- 
tural scenes,  antique  portraits,  homely  allegories, 
painted  in  those  brilliant  and  forgotten  colors  which 
Art  has  not  ceased  to  deplore.  The  daylight  melt- 
ing into  gloom  or  colored  with  fantastic  brilliancy,  15 
priests  in  effulgent  robes  chanting  in  unknown  lan- 
guage, the  sublime  breathing  of  choral  music,  the 
suffocating  odor  of  myrrh  and  spikenard,  sugges- 
tive of  the  Oriental  scenery  and  imagery  of  Holy 
Writ,  all  combined  to  bewilder  and  exalt  the  senses.  20 

. —  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic. 

Notes. — This  passage  from  Motley  combines  to  a  con- 
siderable degree  the  merits  of  the  two  selections  that 
immediately  precede  it.  It  is  mainly  impressionistic  in 
method,  but  is  sufficiently  clear  as  to  the  structural  lines 
of  the  picture,  and  it  appeals  not  merely  to  the  eye  but  to  25 
all  the  senses.  It  begins  with  the  highly  suggestive  simile 
which  likens  the  church  in  the  noisy  city  to  "a  sacred 
island  in  the  tumultuous  main."  Having  thus  placed  be- 
fore us  the  environment  of  the  object — as  Motley  is  usually 
careful  to  do — the  author  tries  to  suggest  the  general  look  30 
of  the  lofty,  mysterious  interior.  He  then  proceeds  to  the 
bewildering  details  of  decorative  richness,  and  to  the 
sights,  sounds,  odors  of  the  sacred  service,  which  mingle 


THE  MASOM,  21 

with  the  colored  sunlight  and  retreating  gloom  in  theit 
apoeal  to  the  senses  and  the  imagination. 


LOUIS   BERTRAND. 

The  mason  Abraham  Knupfer  sings,  with  trowel 

in  hand,  scaffolded  in  the  air,  so  high  that,  reading 

5  the  Gothic  verses  on  the  great  bell,  he  levels  under 

his  feet  the  church  with  its  thirty  buttresses  and  the 

town  with  its  thirty  churches. 

'He  sees  the  stone  gargoyles  disgorge  the  water 
of  the  slates  into  the  confused  abysm  of  galleries, 
loof  windows,  of  pendentives,  of  spires,  of  towers,  of 
roofs,  and  of  frames  which  the  dented  and  motion- 
less wing  of  a  tiercelet  dashes  with  a  spot  of  gray. 

He  sees  the  fortifications  cut  in  the  shape  of  a 
star,  the  citadel  that  swells  out  like  a  hen  in  a  dove- 
15  cot,  the  courts  of  the  palaces  where  the  sun  dries, 
and  the  fountains  and  the  cloisters  of  the  monas- 
teries where  the  shade  revolves  around  the  pillars. 
The  imperial  troops  are  quartered  in  the  fau- 
bourg.    And  now  a  horseman  is  drumming  yonder. 
20  Abraham   Knupfer   distinguishes   his   three-horned 
chapeau,  his  aiguillettes  of  red  wool,  his  cockade 
shot  with  gold  thread,  and  his  queue  tied  with  a 
ribbon. 
And  beyond  he  sees  soldiers  who,  in  the  park 
25  plumed  with  gigantic  branches,  upon  large  lawns  of 
emerald,   riddle   with   their   arquebuses   a   wooden 
bird,  stuck  on  the  top  of  a  May-pole. 

And  in  the  evening,  when  the  harmonious  nave 

'  Reprinted,  by  permission    of  the    publishers,   from  "  Pastels  in 
Prose,"  copyright,  i8go,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


«a  DESCRIPTION. 

of  the  cathedral  fell  asleep,  with  its  arms  extended 
in  the  shape  of  a  cross,  he  perceived,  from  his  lad- 
der, towards  the  horizon,  a  village,  fired  by  the 
men-at-arms,  that  flamed  like  a  comet  through  the 
azure.  5 

Notes. — The  charm  of  this  "  pastel."  as  the  French  call 
a  variety  of  extremely  short  artistic  compositions,  lies 
chiefly  in  the  novelty  of  the  point  of  view.  Hawthorne 
has  utilized  the  same  novelty  in  his  "Sights  from  a 
Steeple."  But  the  chief  value  of  M.  Bertrand's  pastel  to  lo 
the  sti4dent  is  the  fact  of  the  point  of  view.  From  this 
point  the  description  proceeds,  beginning  with  the  nearest 
objects,  and  to  it  repairs.  By  it  the  question  of  what 
detail  to  present  is  settled.  It  steadies  the  reader's  mind 
and  makes  confusion  impossible.  I5 


12.— tlbe  "Jball  jfarm. 

GEORGE   ELIOT. 

'Evidently  that  gate  is  never  opened ;  for  the  long 
grass  and  the  great  hemlocks  grow  close  against  it; 
and  if  it  were  opened,  it  is  so  rusty  that  the  force 
necessary  to  turn  it  on  its  hinges  would  be  likely  to 
pull  down  the  square  stone-pillars,  to  the  detriment  20 
of  the  two  stone  lionesses  which  grin,  with  a  doubt- 
ful carnivorous  affability,  above  a  coat  of  arms  sur- 
mounting each  of  the  pillars.  It  would  be  easy 
enough,  by  the  aid  of  the  nicks  in  the  stone  pillars, 
to  climb  over  the  brick  wall,  with  its  smooth  stone  25 
coping;  but  by  putting  our  eyes  close  to  the  rusty 
bars  of  the  gate  we  can  see  the  old  house  well 
enough,  and  all  but  the  very  corners  of  the  grassy 
inclosure. 

It  is  a  very  fine  old  place,  of  red  brick,  softened  30 


THE  HALL  FARM.  23 

by  a  pale  powdery  lichen  which  has  dispersed  itself 
with  happy  irregularity,  so  as  to  bring  the  red  brick 
into  terms  of  friendly  companionship  with  the  lime- 
stone ornaments  surrounding  the  three  gables,  the 
5  windows,  and  the  door-place.  But  the  windows  are 
patched  with  wooden  panes,  and  the  door,  I  think, 
is  like  the  gate — it  is  never  opened;  how  it  would 
groan  and  grate  against  the  stone  floor  if  it  were! 
For  it  is  a  solid,  heavy,  handsome  door  and  must 

10  once  have  been  in  the  habit  of  shutting  with  a  so- 
norous bang  behind  a  liveried  lackey,  who  had  just 
seen  his  master  and  mistress  off  the  grounds  in  a 
carriage  and  pair. 

But  at  present  one  might  fancy  the  house  in  the 

15  early  stage  of  a  chancery  suit,  and  that  the  fruit 
from  that  grand  double  row  of  walnut  trees  on  the 
right  hand  of  the  inclosure  would  fall  and  rot 
among  the  grass,  if  it  were  not  that  we  heard  the 
booming  bark  of  dogs  echoing  from  great  build- 

soings  at  the  back.  And  now  the  half-weaned  calves 
that  have  been  sheltering  themselves  in  a  gorse-built 
hovel  against  the  left-hand  wall  come  out  and  set 
up  a  silly  answer  to  that  terrible  bark,  doubtless 
supposing  that  it  has  reference  to  buckets  of  milk, 

25  Yes,  the  house  must  be  inhabited,  and  we  will  see 
by  whom,  for  imagination  is  a  licensed  trespasser; 
it  has  no  fear  of  dogs,  but  may  climb  over  walls  and 
peep  in  at  windows  with  impunity.  Put  your  face 
to  one  of  the  glass  panes  in  the  right-hand  window; 

30 what  do  you  see?  A  large  open  fireplace,  with 
rusty  dogs  in  it,  and  a  bare-boarded  floor ;  at  the  far 
end  fleeces  of  wool  stacked  up ;  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  some  empty  corn-bags.  That  is  the  furniture 
of  the  dining  room.    And  what  through  the  left- 


24  DESCRIPTION. 

hand  window?  Several  clothes-horses,  a  pillion,  a 
spinning-wheel,  and  an  old  box,  wide  open,  and 
stuffed  full  of  colored  rags.  At  the  edge  of  this 
box  there  lies  a  great  wooden  doll,  which,  so  far  as 
mutilation  is  concerned,  bears  a  strong  resemblance  5 
to  the  finest  Greek  sculpture,  and  especially  in  the 
total  loss  of  its  nose.  Near  it  there  is  a  little  chair, 
and  the  butt  end  of  a  boy's  leather  long-lashed 
whip. 

— Adam  Bede. 

Notes. — Here  George  Eliot  combines  the  use  of  the  point  lo 
of  view  with  the  "  traveler's  method,"  or  narrative  descrip- 
tion. Wishing  to  give  all  the  characteristic  details  of  an 
empty  house,  both  the  exterior  and  the  interior,  she  invites 
the  reader  to  view  it  first  through  the  rusty  bars  of  the 
gate  and  then  through  a  window  pane,  15 


13.— Sigbts  an&  Soun56  at  IQlalDen, 

HENRY    D.   THOREAU. 


As  I  sit  at  my  window  this  summer  afternoon, 
hawks  are  circling  about  my  clearing;  the  tan- 
tivy of  wild  pigeons,  flying  by  twos  and  threes 
athwart  my  view,  or  perching  restless  on  the  white- 
pine  boughs  behind  my  house,  gives  a  voice  to  the  20 
air;  a  fishhawk  dimples  the  glassy  surface  of  the 
pond  and  brings  up  a  fish;  a  mink  steals  out  of 
the  marsh  before  my  door  and  seizes  a  frog  by  the 
shore;  the  sedge  is  bending  under  the  weight  of  the 
reed-birds  flitting  hither  and  thither;  and  for 25 
the  last  half-hour  I  have  heard  the  rattle  of  railroad 


SIGHTS  AND  SOUNDS  AT   WALDEN.  25 

cars,  now  dying  away  and  then  reviving  like  the 
beat  of  a  partridge,  conveying  travelers  from  Bos- 
ton to  the  country.  For  I  did  not  live  so  out  of  the 
world  as  that  boy,  who,  as  I  hear,  was  put  out  to  a 
D  farmer  in  the  east  part  of  the  town,  but  ere  long 
ran  away  and  came  home  again,  quite  down  at  the 
heel  and  homesick.  He  had  never  seen  such  a  dull 
and  out-of-the-way  place;  the  folks  were  all  gone 
off;  why,  you  couldn't  even  hear  the  whistle! 

II. 

10  Thus  for  sixteen  days  I  saw  from  my  window  a 
hundred  men  at  work  ^  like  busy  husbandmen,  with 
teams  and  horses  and  apparently  all  the  implements 
of  farming,  such  a  picture  as  we  see  on  the  first 
page  of  the  almanac ;  and  as  often  as  I  looked  out  I 

15  was  reminded  of  the  fable  of  the  lark  and  the  reap- 
ers, or  the  parable  of  the  sower,  and  the  like;  and 
now  they  are  all  gone,  and  in  thirty  days  more, 
probably,  I  shall  look  from  the  same  window  on 
the  pure  sea-green  Walden  water  there,  reflecting 

20  the  clouds  and  the  trees,  and  sending  up  its  evapo- 
rations in  solitude,  and  no  traces  will  appear  that  a 
man  has  ever  stood  there.  Perhaps  I  shall  hear  a 
solitary  loon  laugh  as  he  dives  and  plumes  himself, 
or  shall  see  a  lonely  fisher  in  his  boat,  like  a  floating 

25  leaf,  beholding  his  form  reflected  in  the  waves, 
where  lately  a  hundred  men  securely  labored. 

III. 

Late  in  the  evening  I  heard  the  distant  rumbling 
of  wagons  over  bridges, — a  sound   heard  farther 
'  At  ice-harvesting. 


26  DESCRIPTION. 

than  almost  any  other  at  night, — the  baying  of  dogs, 
and  sometimes  again  the  lowing  of  some  disconso- 
late cow  in  a  distant  barnyard.  In  the  meanwhile 
all  the  shore  rang  with  the  trump  of  bullfrogs,  the 
sturdy  spirits  of  ancient  wine-bibbers  and  wassail-  5 
ers,  still  unrepentant,  trying  to  sing  a  catch  in  their 
Stygian  lake, — if  the  Walden  nymphs  will  pardon 
the  comparison,  for  though  there  are  almost  no 
weeds,  there  are  frogs  there, — who  would  fain  keep 
up  the  hilarious  rules  of  their  old  festal  tables,  10 
though  their  voices  have  waxed  hoarse  and  sol- 
emnly grave,  mocking  at  mirth,  and  the  wine  has 
lost  its  flavor,  and  become  only  liquor  to  distend 
their  paunches,  and  sweet  intoxication  never  comes 
to  drown  the  memory  of  the  past,  but  mere  satura-15 
tion  and  waterloggedness  and  distention.  The 
most  aldermanic,  with  his  chin  upon  a  heart-leaf, 
which  serves  for  a  napkin  to  his  drooling  chaps,  un- 
der this  northern  shore  quafifs  a  deep  draught  of  the 
once  scorned  water,  and  passes  round  the  cup  with  20 
the  ejaculation  tr-r-r-oonk,  tr-r-r-oonk,  tr-r-r-oonk! 
and  straightway  comes  over  the  water  from  some 
distant  cove  the  same  password  repeated,  where  the 
next  in  seniority  and  girth  has  gulped  down  to  his 
mark;  and  when  this  observance  has  made  the  cir-25 
cuit  of  the  shores,  then  ejaculates  the  master  of 
ceremonies,  with  satisfaction,  tr-r-r-oonk!  and  each 
in  his  turn  repeats  the  same  down  to  the  least  dis- 
tended, leakiest,  and  flabbiest  paunched,  that  there 
be  no  mistake;  and  then  the  bowl  goes  round  again 30 
ard  again,  until  the  sun  disperses  the  morning  mist, 
and  only  the  patriarch  is  not  under  the  pond,  but 
vainly  bellowing  froonk  from  time  to  time,  and  paus- 
ing for  a  reply. 


SANTA    CROCE.  27 

I  am  not  sure  that  I  ever  heard  the  sound  of  cock- 
crowing  from  my  clearing-,  and  I  thought  that  it 
might  be  worth  the  while  to  keep  a  cockerel  for  his 
music  merely,  as  a  singing  bird.     The  note  of  this 

5  once  wild  Indian  pheasant  is  certainly  the  most  re- 
markable of  any  bird's,  and  if  they  could  be  natu- 
ralized without  being  domesticated,  it  would  soon 
become  the  most  famous  sound  in  our  woods,  sur- 
passing the  clangor  of  the  goose  and  the  hooting  of 

10 the  owl;  and  then  imagine  the  cackling  of  the  hens 
to  fill  the  pauses  when  their  lords'  clarions  rested! 
No  wonder  that  man  added  this  bird  to  his  tame 
stock — ^to  say  nothing  of  the  eggs  and  drumsticks. 

—  Walden. 

Notes. — Thoreau  has  a  scrupulous  regard  to  the  point  of 
15  view  in  his  descriptions.  If  he  did  not,  as  in  two  of  these 
selections,  view  the  whole  world  from  a  single  window, 
he  did  view  it,  for  the  space  of  two  years,  from  a  single 
clearing.  Two  things  are  noticeable  in  these  selections  : 
first  that  the  point  of  view  is,  for  him,  equally  a  point  of 
20  hearing  ;  and,  second,  that  the  quietest  landscape  can  be 
exhibited  as  full  of  motion. 


14.— Santa  Croce. 

JOHN    RUSKIN. 

Please  leave  the  little  chapel  for  the  moment,  and 
walk  down  the  nave,  till  you  come  to  two  sepulchral 
slabs  near  the  west  end,  and  then  look  about  you 
25  and  see  what  sort  of  a  church  Santa  Croce  is. 

Without  looking  about  you  at  all,  you  may  find, 
in  your  Murray,  the  useful  information  that  it  is  a 
church  which  "  consists  of  a  very  wide  na,ve  and 


2  8  DESCRIPTION. 

lateral  aisles,  separated  by  seven  fine  pointed 
arches."  And  as  you  will  be — under  ordinary  con- 
ditions of  tourist  hurry — glad  to  learn  so  much, 
zmtkout  looking-,  it  is  little  likely  to  occur  to  you 
that  this  nave  and  two  rich  aisles  required  also,  for  5 
your  complete  present  comfort,  walls  at  both  ends, 
and  a  roof  on  the  top.  It  is  just  possible,  indeed, 
you  may  have  been  struck,  on  entering,  by  the  curi- 
ous disposition  of  painted  glass  at  the  east  end; — 
more  remotely  possible  that,  in  returning  down  the  10 
nave,  you  may  this  moment  have  noticed  the  ex- 
tremely small  circular  window  at  the  west  end;  but 
the  chances  are  a  thousand  to  one  that,  after  being 
pulled  from  tomb  to  tomb  round  the  aisles  and 
chapels,  you  should  take  so  extraordinary  an  addi-15 
tional  amount  of  pains  as  to  look  up  at  the  roof, — 
unless  you  do  it  now,  quietly.  It  will  have  had  its 
effect  upon  you,  even  if  you  don't,  without  your 
knowledge.  You  will  return  home  with  a  general 
impression  that  Santa  Croce  is,  somehow,  the  ugli-20 
est  Gothic  church  you  ever  were  in.  Well,  that  is 
really  so;  and  now,  will  you  take  the  pains  to  see 
why? 

There  are  two  features,  on  which,  more  than  on 
any  others,  the  grace  and  delight  of  a  fine  Gothic  25 
building  depends;  one  is  the  springing  of  its  vault- 
ings, the  other  the  proportion  and  fantasy  of  its 
traceries.  This  church  of  Santa  Croce  has  no  vault- 
ings at  all,  but  the  roof  of  a  farmhouse  barn.  And 
its  windows  are  all  of  the  same  pattern, — the  ex- 30 
ceedingly  prosaic  one  of  two  pointed  arches,  with 
a  round  hole  above,  between  them. 

And  to  make  the  simplicity  of  the  roof  more  con- 
spicuous, the  aisles  are  successive  sheds,  built  at 


SANTA    CROCE.  29 

every  arch.  In  the  aisles  of  the  Campo  Santo  of 
Pisco,  the  unbroken  flat  roof  leaves  the  eye  free  to 
look  to  the  traceries;  but  here,  a  succession  of  up- 
and-down  sloping  beam  and  lath  gives  the  impres- 
5  sion  of  a  line  of  stabling  rather  than  a  church  aisle. 
And  lastly,  while,  in  fine  Gothic  buildings,  the  en- 
tire perspective  concludes  itself  gloriously  in  the 
high  and  distant  apse,  here  the  nave  is  cut  across 
sharply  by  a  line  of  ten  chapels,  the  apse  being 

10  only  a  tall  recess  in  the  midst  of  them,  so  that, 
strictly  speaking,  the  church  is  not  of  the  form  of 
a  cross,  but  of  a  letter  T. 

Can  this  clumsy  and  ungraceful  arrangement  be 
indeed  the  design  of  the  renowned  Arnolfo? 

15  Yes,  this  is  purest  Arnolfo-Gothic ;  not  beauti- 
ful by  any  means;  but  deserving,  nevertheless,  our 
thoughtfulest  examination.  We  will  trace  its  com- 
plete character  another  day;  just  now  we  are  only 
concerned  with  this  pre-Christian  form  of  the  letter 

20  T,  insisted  upon  in  the  lines  of  chapels. 

— Mornings  in  Florence. 

Notes.— The  landscape  or  the  building  whose  structural 
lines  are  distinct,  and  like  some  familiar  outline,  is  far 
more  easily  remembered  than  the  inchoate  landscape  or 
building.     The  artist  need  not  always  intrude  a  "  funda- 

25  mental  image  "  '  upon  his  reader,  but  he  is  careful  to  sug- 
gest one  if  necessary.  Thus  Motley  gives  us  indirectly  the 
sense  of  a  forest-aisle  by  his  first  words  concerning  th*^ 
interior  of  the  Antwerp  cathedral.  In  the  present  selec- 
tion Ruskin  shows  how  the  beholder  of  a  scene  may  feel 

30  the  effect  of  the  fundamental  image  before  he  really  per- 
ceives it  through  the  details. 

'  The  phrase  is  that  of  Messrs.  Fletcher  and  Carpenter  r 
"  Introduction  to  Theme  Writing,"  p.  39,  ff. 


3«>  DESCRIPTION. 

l5.--:JSrusseIs. 

JOHN   LOTHROP  MOTLEY. 

Brussels  had  been  a  city  for  more  than  five  cen- 
turies, and,  at  that  day,  numbered  about  one  hun- 
dred thousand  inhabitants.  Its  walls,  six  miles  in 
circumference,  were  already  two  hundred  years  old. 
Unlike  most  Netherland  cities,  lying  usually  upon  5 
extensive  plains,  it  was  built  along  the  sides  of  an 
abrupt  promontory.  A  wide  expanse  of  living 
verdure,  cultivated  gardens,  shady  groves,  fertile 
cornfields,  flowed  round  it  like  a  sea.  The  foot  of 
the  town  was  washed  by  the  little  river  Senne,  while  10 
the  irregular  but  picturesque  streets  rose  up  the 
steep  sides  of  the  hill  like  the  semicircles  and  stair- 
ways of  an  amphitheater.  Nearly  in  the  heart  of  the 
place  rose  the  audacious  and  exquisitely  embroid- 
ered tower  of  the  town  house,  three  hundred  and  15 
sixty-six  feet  in  height,  a  miracle  of  needlework  in 
stone,  rivaling  in  its  intricate  carving  the  cobweb 
tracery  of  that  lace  which  has  for  centuries  been 
synonymous  with  the  city,  and  rearing  itself  above 
a  faqade  of  profusely  decorated  and  brocaded  archi-20 
tecture.  The  crest  of  the  elevation  was  crowned  by 
the  towers  of  the  old  ducal  palace  of  Brabant,  with 
its  extensive  and  thickly  wooded  park  on  the  left, 
and  by  the  stately  mansions  of  Orange,  Egmont, 
Aremberg,  Culemberg,  and  other  Flemish  gran- 25 
dees,  on  the  right.  The  great  forest  of  Soignies, 
dotted  with  monasteries  and  convents,  swarming 
with  every  variety  of  game,  whither  the  citizens 
made  their  summer  pilgrimages,  and  where  the  no- 


T^VO   EARLY  APOLLOS.  31 

bles  chased  the  wild  boar  and  the  stag,  extended  to 
within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  city  walls. 

—  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic. 

Notes. — In  describing  a  town,  Motley  here  gives  first  its 
environment.     Then    he   states  the    fundamental    image 
5  definitely,  in  order  to  supply  a  sketch  map  upon  which  the 
details  may  be  located. 


16.— c:wo  lEarls  Spollos.' 

WALTER   PATER. 

That  primitive  worship,  traceable  in  almost  all 
these  particulars,  even  in  the  first  book  of  the  Iliad, 
had  given  place,  before  the  time  of  Canachus  at 

loSicyon,  to  a  more  elaborate  ritual  and  a  more  com- 
pletely designed  image-work;  and  a  little  bronze 
statue,  discovered  on  the  site  of  Tenea,  where 
Apollo  was  the  chief  object  of  worship,-  the  best  rep- 
resentative of  many  similar  marble  figures — those 

15  of  Thera  and  Orchomenus,  for  instance — is  sup- 
posed to  represent  Apollo  as  this  still  early  age  con- 
ceived him — youthful,  naked,  muscular,  and  with 
the  germ  of  the  Greek  profile,  but  formally  smiling, 
and  with  a  formal  diadem  or  fillet,  over  the  long 

20  hair  which  shows  him  to  be  no  mortal  athlete.  The 
hands,  like  the  feet,  excellently  modeled,  are  here 
extended  downward  at  the  sides;  but  in  some  simi- 
lar figures  the  hands  are  lifted,  and  held  straight 
outwards,  with  the  palms  upturned.     The  Apollo  of 

25  Canachus  also  had  the  hands  thus  raised,  and  on 

>  Reprinted  from  "Greek  Studies,"  by  permission  of  Messrs.  The 
Macmillan  Company. 

*  Now  preserved  at  Mtrnich. 


3  2  DESORIP  TION. 

the  open  palm  of  the  right  hand  was  placed  a  stag, 
while  with  the  left  he  grasped  the  bow.  Pliny  says 
that  the  stag  was  an  automaton,  with  a  mechanical 
device  for  setting  it  in  motion,  a  detail  which  hints, 
at  least,  at  the  subtlety  of  workmanship  with  which  5 
those  ancient  critics,  who  had  opportunity  of  know- 
ing, credited  this  early  artist.  Of  this  work  itself 
nothing  remains,  but  we  possess  perhaps  some  imi- 
tations of  it.  It  is  probably  this  most  sacred  pos- 
session of  the  place  which  the  coins  of  Miletus  dis-  lo 
play  from  various  points  of  view,  though,  of  course, 
only  on  the  smallest  scale.  But  a  little  bronze  fig- 
ure in  the  British  Museum,  with  the  stag  in  the 
right  hand,  and  in  the  closed  left  hand  the  hollow 
where  the  bow  has  passed,  is  thought  to  have  been  15 
derived  from  it;  and  its  points  of  style  are  still  fur- 
ther illustrated  by  a  marble  head  of  similar  char- 
acter, also  preserved  in  the  British  Museum,  which 
has  many  marks  of  having  been  copied  in  marble 
from  an  original  in  bronze.  A  really  ancient  work,  20 
or  only  archaic,  it  certainly  expresses,  together  with 
all  that  careful  patience  and  hardness  of  workman- 
ship which  is  characteristic  of  an  early  age,  a  cer- 
tain Apolline  strength — a  pride  and  dignity  in  the 
features,  so  steadily  composed,  below  the  stifif,  25 
archaic  arrangement  of  the  long,  fillet-bound  locks. 

Notes. — In  all  the  selections  preceding  this,  the  number 
of  details  has  been  relatively  large,  the  aim  being  a  some- 
what complete  description,  whether  definite  or  impression- 
istic. It  is  customary  to  say  that  scientific  description  30 
differs  from  artistic  first  in  the  number  of  details.  Perhaps 
this  is  usually  so,  since  the  purpose  of  the  former  species 
is  a  sure  identification.  On  the  other  hand,  however,  the 
very  point  in  scientific  classification  is  the  single  detail 


A    GIRL'S  FACE.  33 

which  distinguishes  one  variety  from  another.  The  intent 
of  Mr.  Pater's  comparison  of  the  early  Apollos  with  later 
is  scientific,  however  artistic  the  descriptive  material  or 
the  diction.  To  distinguish  the  archaic  school  of  Canachus 
She  directs  attention  to  "a  certain  Apolline  strength," 
residing  chiefly  in  the  stiffness  of  line. 


17.— a  ©iri's  fface.' 

THEODORE   WATTS-DUNTON. 

Intense  curiosity  now  made  me  suddenly  forget 
my  troubles.  I  scrambled  back  through  the  trees 
not  far  from  that  spot  and  looked  around.     There, 

10  sitting  upon  a  grassy  grave,  beneath  one  of  the 
windows  of  the  church,  was  a  little  girl,  somewhat 
younger  than  myself  apparently.  With  her  head 
bent  back  she  was  gazing  up  at  the  sky  and  singing, 
while  one  of  her  little  hands  was  pointing  to  a  tiny 

15  cloud  that  hovered  like  a  golden  feather  over  her 
head.  The  sun,  which  had  suddenly  become  very 
bright,  shining  on  her  glossy  hair  (for  she  was  bare- 
headed) gave  it  a  metallic  luster,  and  it  was  difficult 
to  say  what  was  the  color,  dark  bronze  or  black. 

20  So  completely  absorbed  was  she  in  watching  the 
cloud  to  which  her  strange  song  or  incantation 
seemed  addressed,  that  she  did  not  observe  me  when 
I  rose  and  went  towards  her.  Over  her  head,  high 
up  in  the  blue,  a  lark  that  was  soaring  towards  the 

25  same  gauzy  cloud  was  singing,  as  if  in  rivalry.  As 
I  slowly  approached  the  child,  I  could  see  by  her 
forehead  (which  in  the  sunshine  seemed  like  a  globe 
of  pearl),  and  especially  by  her  complexion,  that 

>  Reprinted  fr«in  "  Aylwin,"  by  permission  of  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead 
&Co, 


34  description: 

she  was  uncommonly  lovely,  and  I  was  afraid  lest 
she  should  look  down  before  I  got  close  to  her, 
and  so  see  my  crutches  before  her  eyes  encountered 
my  face.  She  (fid  not,  however,  seem  to  hear  me 
coming  along  the  grass  (so  intent  was  she  with  her  5 
singing)  until  I  was  close  to  her,  and  throwing  my 
shadow  over  her.  Then  she  suddenly  lowered  her 
head  and  looked  at  me  in  surprise.  I  stood  trans- 
fixed at  her  astonishing  beauty.  No  other  picture 
has  ever  taken  such  possession  of  me.  In  its  every  10 
detail  it  lives  before  me  now.  Her  eyes  (which  at 
one  moment  seemed  blue-gray,  at  another  violet) 
were  shaded  by  long  black  lashes,  curving  back- 
ward in  a  most  peculiar  way,  and  these  matched  in 
hue  her  eyebrows,  and  the  tresses  that  were  tossed  15 
about  her  tender  throat  and  were  quivering  in  the 
sunlight. 

All  this  picture  I  did  not  take  in  at  once;  for  at 
first  I  could  see  nothing  but  those  quivering,  glit- 
tering, changeful  eyes  turned  up  into  my  face.  20 
Gradually  the  other  features  (especially  the  sensi- 
tive full-lipped  mouth)  grew  upon  me  as  I  stood 
silently  gazing.  Here  seemed  to  me  a  more  per- 
fect beauty  than  had  ever  come  to  me  in  my  love- 
liest dreams  of  beauty  beneath  the  sea.  Yet  it  was  25 
not  her  beauty,  perhaps,  so  much  as  the  look  she 
gave  me,  that  fascinated  me,  melted  me. 

Notes. — The  description  of  an  object  by  its  most  strik- 
ing quality  is  a  long-recognized  literary  device,  from  the 
simple  essential  epithets  of  Homer  to  the  craftily  chosen  30 
adjectives  of  Tennyson  and  Mr.  Henry  James.  The 
passage  from  Mr.  Watts-Dunton  shows  the  whole  process 
of  how  the  attention  is  sometimes  arrested  by  one  feature, 
so  that  all  the  others  are  seen  for  the  moment  in  a  blur. 


GEORGE    THE  FOURTH.  35 

18.— (Beorgc  tbe  jFourtb. 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

To  make  a  portrait  of  him  at  first  seemed  a  mat- 
ter of  small  difficulty.  There  is  his  coat,  his  star, 
his  wig",  his  countenance  simpering  under  it:  with 
a  slate  and  a  piece  of  chalk,  I  could  at  this  very  desk 
5  perform  a  recognizable  likeness  of  him.  And  yet 
after  reading  of  him  in  scores  of  volumes,  hunting 
him  through  old  magazines  and  newspapers,  having 
him  here  at  a  ball,  there  at  a  public  dinner,  there  at 
races  and  so  forth,  you  find  you  have  nothing — 

10  nothing  but  a  coat  and  a  wig  and  a  mask 
smiling  below  it — nothing  but  a  great  simula- 
crum. His  sire  and  grandsires  were  men.  One 
knows  what  they  were  like:  what  they  would 
do    in    given    circumstances:    that    on    occasion 

15  they  fought  and  demeaned  themselves  like 
tough  good  soldiers.  They  had  friends  whom 
they  liked  according  to  their  natures;  ene- 
mies whom  they  hated  fiercely:  passions,  and  ac- 
tions, and  individualities  of  their  own.     The  sailor 

zo  King  who  came  after  George  was  a  man:  the  Duke 
of  York  was  a  man,  big,  burly,  loud,  jolly,  cursing, 
courageous.  But  this  George,  what  was  he?  I 
look  through  all  his  life,  and  recognize  but  a  bow 
and  a  grin.     I  try  and  take  him  to  pieces,  and  find 

25  silk  stockings,  padding,  stays,  a  coat  with  frogs  and 
a  fur  collar,  a  star  and  blue  ribbon,  a  pocket  hand- 
kerchief prodigiously  scented,  one  of  Truefitt's  best 
nutty  brown  wigs  reeking  with  oil,  a  set  of  teeth, 
and  a  huge  black  stock,  under-waistcoats,  more  un- 

30  der- waistcoats,  and  then  nothing.     I  know  of  no 


36  DESCRIPTION. 

sentiment  that  he  ever  distinctly  uttered.  Docu- 
ments are  published  under  his  name,  but  people 
wrote  them — private  letters,  but  people  spelt 
them.  He  put  a  great  George  P.  or  George  R.  at 
the  bottom  of  the  page  and  fancied  he  had  written  5 
the  paper:  some  bookseller's  clerk,  some  poor  au- 
thor, some  man  did  the  work;  saw  to  the  spelling, 
cleaned  up  the  slovenly  sentences,  and  gave  the  lax 
maudlin  slipslop  a  sort  of  consistency.  He  must 
have  had  an  individuaHty:  the  dancing-master  10 
whom  he  emulated,  nay,  surpassed — the  wig-maker 
who  curled  his  toupee  for  him — the  tailor  who'  cut 
his  coats,  had  that.  But,  about  George,  one  can 
get  at  nothing  actual.  That  outside,  I  am  certain, 
is  pad  and  tailor's  work;  there  may  be  something  15 
behind,  but  what?  We  cannot  get  at  the  character; 
no  doubt  never  shall.  Will  men  of  the  future  have 
nothing  better  to  do  than  to  unswathe  and  interpret 
that  royal  old  mummy?  I  own  I  once  used  to 
think  it  would  be  good  sport  to  pursue  him,  fas- 20 
ten  on  him,  and  pull  him  down.  But  now  I  am 
ashamed  to  mount  and  lay  good  dogs  on,  to  sum- 
mon a  full  field,  and  then  to  hunt  the  poor  game. 

—  The  Four  Georges. 

Notes. — Here  we  have  exaggeration  of  certain  parts  of 
a  picture  and  deliberate  suppression  of  others,  for  pur-  25 
poses  of  satire.  King  George's  features  are  unmentioned, 
but  his  gay  clothes,  the  symbol  of  his  superficial  nature, 
are  relentlessly  exhibited.  Dickens  was  fond  of  this  sort 
of  caricature,  and  indeed  could  hardly  describe  at  all  with- 
out throwing  some  feature  into  high  relief.  Mrs.  Fezziwig  30 
is  "all  one  vast  substantial  smile,"  and  Mr.  Carker  all 
teeth.  The  satiric  epithet  is  one  of  the  beginnings  of 
literature  among  savage  races,  and  even  among  savages 


AN  EDINBURGH   TRIO.  37 

is  often  picturesque.  The  execution  that  can  be  done  by 
the  satiric  epithet  in  its  perfection  has  often  been  illus- 
trated in  the  United  States,  for  it  is  alike  a  Yankee  and  a 
Southern  gift.  A  nickname,  such  as  Abraham  Lincoln 
5  could  devise  and  relentlessly  apply,  is  sometimes  able  to 
drive  the  victim  out  of  town . 


19.— Bn  JEDinburfib  tlrlo. 

JAMES    M.    BARRIE. 

iMr,  James  Payn,  who  never  forgave  the  Scottish 
people  for  pulling  down  their  blinds  on  Sundays, 
was  annoyed  by  the  haJo  they  have  woven  around 

lo  the  name  "  professor."  He  knew  an  Edinburgh 
lady  who  was  scandaHzed  because  that  mere  poet, 
Alexander  Smith,  coolly  addressed  professors  by 
their  surnames.  Mr.  Payn  might  have  known  what 
it  is  to  walk  in  the  shadow  of  a  Senatus  Academicus 

15  could  he  have  met  such  specimens  as  Sellar,  Era- 
ser, Tait,  and  Sir  Alexander  Grant  marching  down 
the  Bridges  abreast.  1  have  seen  them:  an  inspir- 
ing sight.  The  pavement  only  held  three.  You 
could  have  shaken  hands  with  them  from  an  upper 

20  window. 

— An  Edinburgh  Eleveti. 

Notes. — Description  by  stating  an  effect,  from  which 
the  reader's  imagination  will  flash  back  to  the  cause,  is  one 
of  the  most  effective  of  all  descriptive  modes.  Its  value 
to  the  playwright  is  obvious.  The  classic  example  of  this 
25  device  is  in  the  Iliad.  Homer  has  a  care  to  state  the 
effect  of  Helen's  beauty  upon  the  Greeks  and  the  Trojans, 
rather  than  to  list  her  beauties.  "  It  is  not  strange,"  say 
the  cicada-voiced  counselors  of  Priam  as  they  watch  the 
lady, ' '  that  the  well-greaved  Greeks  and  the  Trojans  should 


3^  DESCRIPTION. 

fight  together  for  ten  years  in  contest  for  such  a  woman, 
for  she  is  very  like  to  the  immortal  goddesses." 


20.-^be  dim. 

EDGAR   ALLAN    POE. 

We  had  now  reached  the  summit  of  the  loftiest 
crag.  For  some  minutes  the  old  man  seemed  too 
much  exhausted  to  speak.  5 

"  Not  long  ago,"  said  he  at  length,  "  and  I  could 
have  guided  you  on  this  route  as  well  as  the  young- 
est of  my  sons;  but,  about  three  years  past,  there 
happened  to  me  an  event  such  as  never  happened 
before  to  mortal  man — or  at  least  such  as  no  man  10 
ever  survived  to  tell  of — and  the  six  hours  of  deadly 
terror  which  I  then  endured  have  broken  me  up 
body  and  soul.  You  suppose  me  a  very  old  nuan — 
but  I  am  not.  It  took  less  than  a  single  day  to 
change  these  hairs  from  a  jetty  black  to  white,  to  15 
weaken  my  limbs,  and  to  unstring  my  nerves,  so 
that  I  tremble  at  the  least  exertion,  and  am  fright- 
ened at  a  shadow.  Do  you  know  I  can  scarcely 
look  over  this  little  cliff  without  getting  giddy?" 

The  "little  cliff,"  upon  whose  edge  he  had  so 20 
carelessly  thrown  himself  down  to  rest  that  the 
weightier  portion  of  his  body  hung  over  it,  while 
he  was  only  kept  from  falling  by  the  tenure  of  his 
elbow  on  its  extreme  and  slippery  edge — this  "  lit- 
tle cliff"  arose,  a  sheer  unobstructed  precipice  of 25 
black  shining  rock,  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  hundred 
feet  from  the  world  of  crags  beneath  us.  Nothing 
would  have  tempted  me  to  be  within  half  a  dozen 
yards  of  its  brink.     In  truth  so  deeply  was  I  excited 


A   MARBLE  BACCHUS.  39 

by  the  perilous  position  of  my  companion,  that  I  fell 
at  full  length  upon  the  ground,  clung  to  the  shrubs 
around  me,  and  dared  not  even  glance  upward  at 
the  sky — while  I  struggled  in  vain  to  divest  myself 
5  of  the  idea  that  the  very  foundations  of  the  moun- 
tain were  in  danger  from  the  fury  of  the  winds. 
It  was  long  before  I  could  reason  myself  into  suffi- 
cient courage  to  sit  up  and  look  out  into  the  dis- 
tance. 

— A  Descent  into  the  Maelstrom. 

io  Notes. — Poe  indicates  the  terror  of  six  hours  in  the  Mael- 
strom by  showing  the  broken  condition  of  the  survivor's  body 
and  mind.  In  the  same  passage  he  suggests  the  height 
of  a  great  cHfB  by  two  methods  :  first  by  comparison,  in 
that  the  survivor  of  the  whirlpool  referred  to  it  as  a  "  little 

15  cliff,"  whereas  the  narrator  presently  saw  it  to  be  1500  feet 
high  ;  and  secondlj'-  by  stating  the  terror  it  created  in  the 
narrator,  who  threw  himself  fiat  on  his  face  and  clung  to 
the  shrubs.  It  may  be  interesting  to  compare  Edgar's 
description  of  Dover  cliff,  addressed  to  the  blind  Gloster, 

21.— B  /IBarble  asaccbus. 

VERNON   LEE. 

20  The  two  marble  figures,  to  which  time  and  a  long 
sojourn  underground  had  given  a  brownish  yellow 
color,  reddish  in  places  with  rust  stains,  stood  out 
against  a  background  of  Flemish  tapestr}%  whose 
emaciated  heads  of  kings  and  thin  bodies  of  warrior 

25  saints  made  a  confused  pattern  on  the  general  dusky 
blue  and  green.  The  group  was  in  wonderful  pres- 
ervation: the  figure  of  Bacchus  intact,  that  of  the 
young  faun  lacking  only  the  arm,  which  had  evi« 
dently  been  freely  extended. 


40  DESCRIPTION. 

It  exists  in  many  repetitions  and  variations  in 
most  of  our  museums;  a  work  originally  of  the 
school  of  Praxiteles,  but  in  none  of  the  copies 
handed  to  us  of  excellence  sufficient  to  display  the 
hand  of  the  original  sculptor.  Besides,  we  have  5 
been  spoiled  by  familiarity  with  an  older  and  more 
powerful  school,  by  knowledge  of  a  few  great  mas- 
terpieces, for  complete  appreciation  of  such  a  work. 
But  it  was  different  four  hundred  years  ago;  and 
Domenico  Neroni  stood  long  and  entranced  before  lo 
the  group.  Tlie  principal  figure  embodied  all  those 
beauties  which  he  had  been  striving  so  hard  to  un- 
derstand: it  was,  in  the  most  triumphant  manner, 
the  absolute  reverse  of  the  figures  of  Donatello. 

The  young  god  was  represented  walking  with  15 
leisurely  but  vigorous  step,  supporting  himself  upon 
the  shoulder  of  the  little  satyr  as  the  vine  supports 
itself,    with    tendrils    trailed    about    branches    and 
trunk,  on  the  propping  tree  from  which  the  child 
Ampelos  took  his  name.     Like  the  head  with  its  20 
elaborately  dressed  curls,  the  beautiful  body  had  an 
ampleness  and  tenderness  that  gave  an  impression 
almost  womanly  till  you  noticed  the  cuirass-like  sit 
of   the   chest   on   the   loins,    and   the    compressed 
strength  of  the  long  light  thighs.     Tlie  creature,  as  25 
you  looked  at  him,  seemed  to  reveal  more  and  more, 
beneath  the  roundness  and  fairness  of  surface,  the 
elasticity  and   strength  of  an   athlete  in  training. 
But  when  the  eye  was  not  exploring  the  delicate, 
hard,  and  yet  supple  depressions  and  swellings  of  30 
the  muscles,  the  slender  shapeliness  of  the  long  legs 
and   springy  feet,   the   back   bulging   with   strong 
muscles  above,  and  going  in,  tight,  with  a  magnifi- 
cent dip  at  the  waist,  all  impressions  were  merged 


A   MARBLE  BACCHUS.  4^ 

in  a  sense  of  ease,  of  suavity,  of  full-blown  harmony. 
Here  was  no  pomp  of  anatomical  lore,  of  cunning 
handicraft,  but  the  life  seemed  to  circulate  strong 
and  gentle  in  this  exquisite  effortless  body.  And 
5  the  creature  was  not  merely  alive  with  a  life  more 
harmonious  than  that  of  living  men  or  carved  mar- 
bles, but  beautiful,  equally  in  simple  outline  if  you 
chose  that,  and  in  subtle  detail  when  that  came 
under  your  notice,  with  a  beauty  that  seemed  to 

JO  multiply  itself,  existing  in  all  manners,  as  it  can  only 
in  things  that  have  life,  in  perfect  flowers  and  fruits, 
or  high-bred  Oriental  horses.  Of  such  things  did 
the  under-strata  of  consciousness  consist  in  Neroni 
— vague  impressions  of  certain  bunches  of  grapes 

15  with  their  great  rounded  leaves  hanging  against  the 
blue  sky,  of  the  flame-like  tapered  petals  of  wild  tu- 
lips in  the  fields,  of  the  golden-brown  flanks  of  cer- 
tain horses,  and  the  broad  white  foreheads  of  the 
Umbrian  bullocks ;  forming  as  it  were  a  background 

20  for  the  perception  of  this  god,  for  no  man  or  woman 
had  ever  been  like  unto  him. 

— A  Seeker  of  Pagan  Perfection,  t'ti  "  Renais- 
sance Fancies  and  Studies." 

Notes. — The  passage  is  noticeable  in  three  respects. 
First,  since  the  author  does  not  intend  to  deal  with  color  in 
her  treatment  of  the  Bacchus  itself,  she  begins  by  giving 

25  the  group  its  proper  color  setting  in  the  Florentine  palace. 
With  a  fe\v  selected  details  she  arouses  a  sense  of  its  high 
relief  against  the  dusky  pattern  of  tapestry — a  rich  piece  of 
color  against  a  pale  background.  Next,  leading  us  to 
forget  the  color  scheme  entirely,  she  throws  all  emphasis 

30  on  the  form  of  the  figure  as  indicating  effortless  strength. 
She  might  have  described  the  form  for  its  own  sake,  but  does 
not,  beyond  assuring  us  that  the  creature  was  equally 
beautiful  "  in  simple  outline  and  in  subtle  detail."     In  this 


42  DESCRIPTIOI^. 

she  avoids  an  error  very  common  in  descriptions  of  the 
human  being  ;  she  remembers  that  while  pattern  is  a  prime 
element  in  painting,  it  is  secondary  in  sculpture.  The 
chief  aim  of  the  sculptor  is  so  to  use  light-and-shade  as  to 
convey  a  sense  of  the  exquisite  functioning  of  the  human  5 
muscles,  as  they  appear  in  the  serenity  of  rest  or  under  some 
simple  primal  emotion.  Vernon  Lee  succeeds  in  suggesting 
the  actual  muscular  sensations  which  the  beholder  of  the 
sculptured  athlete  experiences.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  every 
good  description  of  an  athletic  feat  or  contest  does  the  lo 
same.  Witness  Charles  Reade's  description  of  a  boat-race, 
"  Hard  Cash,"  ch.  i,  where  the  rowers  do  not  seem  a  mere 
picture,  but  are  "  supple  bodies  swelling,  the  muscles 
writhing  beneath  their  Jerseys,  and  the  sinews  starting  on 
each  bare  arm."  The  third  noticeable  fact  of  the  descrip- 15 
tion  is  the  effort  to  convey,  by  impressionistic  comparisons, 
the  effect  of  the  sculptural  beauty  on  the  beholder's 
aesthetic  sense.  The  perfection  of  youthful  strength  and 
grace  calls  up  the  perfection  of  other  highly  bred  animals, 
or  that  of  flowers  and  fruits.  When  this  method  of  trans-  20 
mitting  an  emotion  is  successful,  as  here,  it  is  one  of  the 
triumphs  of  language.  But  the  method  is  full  of  danger 
to  the  tyro.  The  diction  one  hears  from  crude  devotees 
of  Wagner  and  Maeterlinck  illustrates  the  fact.  Athletic 
perfection  may  properly  suggest  to  a  Domenico  Neroni  the  25 
flame-like  tapered  petals  of  wild  tulips,  but  a  college 
student  can  hardly  write  of  purple  music  and  musical 
purples  without  inviting  disaster. 


22.— a  XaDB  witb  ipearlg.' 

HENRY   JAMES. 

Within  a  week  after  my  return  to  London  I  went 
to  the  opera,  of  which  I  had  always  been  much  of  a  30 

*  From  the  story  "Glasses,"  in  the  volume  "Embarrassments," 
copyright,  1896,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


A   LADY    WIIH  PEARLS.  43 

devotee.  I  arrived  too  late  for  the  first  act  of 
"  Lohengrin,"  but  the  second  was  just  beginning, 
and  I  gave  myself  up  to  it  with  no  more  than  a 
glance  at  the  house.  When  it  was  over  I  treated 
5  myself,  with  my  glass,  from  my  place  in  the  stalls, 
to  a  general  survey  of  the  boxes,  making  doubtless 
on  their  contents  the  reflections,  pointed  by  com- 
parison, that  are  most  familiar  to  the  wanderer  re- 
stored to  London.     There  was  a  certain  proportion 

loof  pretty  women,  but  I  suddenly  became  aware  that 
one  of  these  was  far  prettier  than  the  others.  This 
lady,  alone  in  one  of  the  smaller  receptacles  of  the 
grand  tier  and  already  the  aim  of  fifty  tentative 
glasses,  which  she  sustained  with  admirable  seren- 

15  ity — this  single  exquisite  figure,  placed  in  the  quar- 
ter furthest  removed  from  my  stall,  was  a  person,  I 
immediately  felt,  to  cause  one's  curiosity  to  linger. 
Dressed  in  white,  with  diamonds  in  her  hair  and 
pearls  on  her  neck,  she  had  a  pale  radiance  of  beauty 

30  which  even  at  that  distance  made  her  a  distin- 
guished presence  and,  with  the  air  that  easily  at- 
taches to  lonely  loveliness  in  public  places,  an  agree- 
able mystery.  A  mystery  however  she  remained 
to  me  only  for  a  minute  after  I  had  leveled  my  glass 

25  at  her:  I  feel  to  this  moment  the  startled  thrill,  the 
shock  almost  of  joy  with  which  I  suddenly  encoun- 
tered in  her  vague  brightness  a  rich  revival  of  Flora 
Saunt.  I  say  a  revival  because,  to  put  it  crudely, 
I  had  on  that  last  occasion  left  poor  Flora  for  dead. 

30  At  present  perfectly  alive  again,  she  was  altered 
only,  as  it  were,  by  resurrection.  A  little  older,  a 
little  quieter,  a  little  finer  and  a  good  deal  fairer,  she 
was  simply  transfigured  by  recovery.  Sustained  by 
the  reflection  that  even  recovery  wouldn't  enable 


44  DESCRIPTION. 

her  to  distinguish  me  in  the  crowd,  I  was  free  to 
look  at  her  well.  Tlien  it  was  it  came  home  to  me 
that  my  vision  of  her  in  her  great  goggles  had  been 
cruelly  final.  As  her  beauty  was  all  there  was  of 
her,  that  machinery  had  extinguished  her,  and  so  far  5 
as  I  thought  of  her  in  the  interval  I  had  thought  of 
her  as  buried  in  the  tomb  her  stern  specialist  had 
built.  With  the  sense  that  she  had  escaped  from  it 
came  a  lively  wish  to  return  to  her;  and  if  I  didn't 
straightway  leave  my  place  and  rush  round  the  thea-  lo 
ter  and  up  to  her  box  it  was  because  I  was  fixed  to 
the  spot  some  moments  longer  by  the  simple  ina- 
bility to  cease  looking  at  her. 

She  had  been  from  the  first  of  my  seeing  her 
practically  motionless,  leaning  back  in  her  chair  ^5 
with  a  kind  of  thoughtful  grace  and  with  her  eyes 
vaguely  directed,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  to  one  of  the 
boxes  on  my  side  of  the  house  and  consequently 
over  my  head  and  out  of  my  sight.  The  only  move- 
ment she  made  for  some  time  was  to  finger  with  an  20 
ungloved  hand  and  as  if  with  the  habit  of  fondness 
the  row  of  pearls  on  her  neck,  which  my  glass 
showed  me  to  be  large  and  splendid. 

Notes. — The  devices  of  description  in  this  passage  are 
so  many  and  so  subtle  that  it  is  perhaps  hardly  fair  to  25 
let  one  of  them  dictate  a  title  for  the  whole  ;  yet  the 
necklace  of  splendid  pearls,  which  the  lady  fingered  with 
"  the  habit  of  fondness,"  is  perhaps  the  most  significant 
detail.  The  noticeable  values  of  the  selection  are  the 
vagueness  and  fewness  of  the  details,  and  yet  the  extraor-  30 
dinary  suggj^stiveness  of  them.  We  do  not  learn  one 
fact  about  the  lady's  features,  beyond  that  they  were 
"a  little  finer"  than  of  old.  But  there  was  a  "pale 
radiance  of  beauty,"  a  "  vague  brightness"  ;  there  was  "a 


THE   HARPSICHORD    OF    YEDDO.  45 

bind  of  thoughtful  grace  "  and  serenity,  and  alone  in  her 
box  she  was  "  an  exquisite  figure."  All  this  is  description 
by  the  use  of  general  terms,  and  leaves  everything  to  the 
imagination.  It  need  hardly  be  remarked  that  the  phrasal 
5  power  of  such  expressions  is  very  great.  Indeed,  such  a 
phrase  as  "  a  rich  revival  of  Flora  Sauut"  reaches  the 
debatable  land  between  literature  and  other  arts  ;  "  a  rich 
revival  of  Flora  Saunt "  is  almost  preciosity,  the  effort  to 
say  exquisitely  what  can  hardly  be  said  at  all.     In  ad- 

lo  dition  to  description  by  general  phrases,  the  selection 
contains  more  than  one  instance  of  description  by  effect. 
The  lady  is  "the  aim  of  fifty  tentative  glasses";  she 
"  causes  one's  curiosity  to  linger  "  ;  the  sight  of  her  gives 
the   narrator  a  startled  thrill,  and  if  he   does  not  rush 

15  around  to  her  box  it  is  because  of  "simple  inability  to 
cease  looking  at  her."  It  may  be  added  that  Mr.  James 
has  a  particular  reason  for  employing  so  much  suggestion 
and  so  little  direct  statement  in  this  description.  He 
must  refrain    from  calling    attention    to  any    particular 

20  feature,  for  that  would  lead  too  soon  to  the  disclosure  of 
the  fact  that  the  beautiful  lady  is  blind. 


23.— Q:be  IbarpsicborD  ot  l?c2)Do.' 

GEORGE  AURIOL. 

Upon  an  old  harpsichord  of  the  time  of  Marie 
Antoinette — that  has  found  its  way,  no  one  knows 
how,  to  the  country  of  the  Mikados — the  frivolous 
25  Lou-Laou-Ti  plays  a  love-song.  Perched  upon  the 
unsteady  stool,  like  a  doll  upon  a  stand,  with  head 
thrown  back,  the  young  girl  sings  softly.  Her 
white  and  delicate  fingers  dance  madly  upon  the 
yellowed  ivory,  then  sweep  very  gravely  over  the 

>  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from   "  Pastels  in 
Prose,"  copyright,  1890,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


46  DESCRIPTION. 

keys  of  ebony,  and  recommence  to  flutter  distract- 
edly hither  and  thither.  The  harpsichord,  with  its 
clear  and  caressing  voice,  seems,  under  the  witchery 
of  the  little  fairy,  to  find  in  its  old  heart  shudders, 
murmurs,  and  vibrations  long  forgotten.  And  that  5 
pufifed  dress  of  blue,  flowered  with  roses,  is  it  not 
of  a  marquise? 

Oh,  how  their  songs  marvelously  harmonize ! 
Dost  thou  speak  Japanese,  centenarian  clavichord? 
Or  thou,  graceful  Japanese  maid,  dost  thou  know,  lo 
perchance,  the  pretty  speech  of  France?  The  pot- 
bellied images,  dozing  on  their  pedestals  of  porce- 
lain, open  astonished  eyes  at  the  unaccustomed  con- 
cert, and  from  their  stelas  of  bronze  the  familiar 
gods  wonder  what  it  all  means.  15 

And  suddenly  all  the  statuettes  change  into  grace- 
ful groups  of  pale  Saxe,  and  the  bands  of  monkeys 
embroidered  upon  the  silk  screens  become  groups 
of  rosy  cupids  that  might  have  been  painted  by 
Boucher  himself.  And  the  black  hair  of  Lou-Laou-  20 
Ti  seems  covered  with  a  vapory  snow. 

Eh,  but  forgive  me ;  it  is  truly  a  marquise  that  is 
playing  there  on  the  harpsichord;  it  is  a  marquise, 
for  she  is  singing, 

"  II  pleut,  il  pleut,  bergere "  25 

Then  the  heart  of  the  old  instrument  warms;  its 
tremulous  chords  vibrate  in  a  supreme  harmony, 
happy  at  having  transformed,  by  their  sole  charm, 
the  interior  of  a  Japanese  apartment,  and  at  hav- 
ing procured  to  a  young  woman,  who  can  neither  30 
say  papa  nor  maman,  the  great  honor  of  singing  a 
couplet  of  poor  Fabre  d'Eglantine,  as  though  she 
had  just  returned  from  Versailles. 


OPIUM  DREAMS.  47 

Notes. — This  "  pastel  "  is  an  effort  to  convey  some  of  the 
charm  of  a  piece  of  music  by  describing  the  effect  on  the 
hearer's  imagination.  Being  a  directly  presentive  art,  a 
language  of  itself,  music  defies  description  ;  but,  as  here, 
5  the  vague  emotions,  memories,  and  imaginings  that  are 
elicited  by  it  may  partly  be  indicated  in  words. 


24.— ©ptum  ©reams. 

THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY. 

I  now  pass  to  what  is  the  main  subject  of  these 
latter  confessions,  to  the  history  and  journal  of 
what  took  place  in  my  dreams;  for  these  were  the 

lo  immediate  and  proximate  cause  of  my  acutest  suf- 
fering-. 

The  first  notice  I  had  of  any  important  change 
going-  on  in  this  part  of  my  physical  economy,  was 
from  the  reawakening  of  a  state  of  eye  generally 

15  incident  to  childhood,  or  exalted  states  of  irrita- 
bility. I  know  not  whether  my  reader  is  aware  that 
many  children,  perhaps  most,  have  a  power  of  paint- 
ing, as  it  were,  upon  the  darkness,  all  sorts  of  phan- 
toms: in  some  that  power  is  simply  a  mechanic  af- 

2ofection  of  the  eye;  others  have  a  voluntary  or  semi- 
voluntary  power  to  dismiss  or  summon  them;  or, 
as  a  child  once  said  to  me,  when  I  questioned  him 
on  this  matter,  "  I  can  tell  them  to  go,  and  they  go; 
but  sometimes  they  come  when  I  don't  tell  them  to 

25  come."  Whereupon  I  told  him  that  he  had  almost 
as  unlimited  a  command  over  apparitions  as  a  Ro- 
man centurion  over  his  soldiers.  In  the  middle  of 
1817,  I  think  it  was,  that  this  faculty  became  posi- 
tively distressing  to  me :  at  night,  when  I  lay  awake 

30  in  bed,  vast  processions  passed  along  in  mournful 


48  DESCRIPTION. 

pomp;  friezes  of  never-ending  stories,  that  to  my 
feelings  were  as  sad  and  solemn  as  if  they  were  sto- 
ries drawn  from  times  before  CEdipus  or  Priam,  be- 
fore Tyre,  before  Memphis.  And,  at  the  same 
time,  a  corresponding  change  took  place  in  my  5 
dreams;  a  theater  seemed  suddenly  opened  and 
lighted  up  within  my  brain,  which  presented, 
nightly,  spectacles  of  more  than  earthly  splendor. 
And  the  four  following  facts  may  be  mentioned,  as 
noticeable  at  this  time:  10 

I.  That,  as  the  creative  state  of  the  eye  increased, 
a  sympathy  seemed  to  arise  between  the  waking 
and  the  dreaming  states  of  the  brain  in  one  point — 
that  whatsoever  I  happened  to  call  up  and  to  trace 
by  a  voluntary  act  upon  the  darkness  was  very  apt  15 
to  transfer  itself  to  my  dreams;  so  that  I  feared  to 
exercise  this  faculty;  for,  as  Midas  turned  all  things 
to  gold,  that  yet  baffled  his  hopes  and  defrauded  his 
human  desires,  so  whatsoever  things  capable  of  be- 
ing visually  represented  I  did  but  think  of  in  the  20 
darkness,  immediately  shaped  themselves  into 
phantoms  of  the  eye;  and,  by  a  process  apparently 
no  less  inevitable,  when  thus  once  traced  in  faint 
and  visionary  colors,  like  writings  in  sympathetic 
ink,  they  were  drawn  out,  by  the  fierce  chemistry  of  25 
my  dreams,  into  insufferable  splendor  that  fretted 
my  heart. 

IL  For  this,  and  all  other  changes  in  my  dreams, 
were  accompanied  by  deep-seated  anxiety  and 
gloomy  melancholy,  such  as  are  wholly  incom-30 
municable  by  words.  I  seemed  every  night  to  de- 
scend— not  metaphorically,  but  literally  to  descend 
— into  chasms  and  sunless  abysses,  depths  below 
depths,  from  which  it  seemed  hopeless  that  I  could 


OPIUM  DREAMS.  49 

ever  reascend.  Nor  did  I,  by  waking,  feel  that  I 
had  reascended.  This  I  do  not  dwell  upon;  because 
the  state  of  gloom  which  attended  these  gorgeous 
spectacles,  amounting  at  least  to  utter  darkness,  as 
5  of  some  suicidal  despondency,  cannot  be  ap- 
proached by  words. 

III.  The  sense  of  space,  and  in  the  end  the  sense 
of  time,  were  both  powerfully  affected.  Buildings, 
landscapes,  etc.,  were  exhibited  in  proportions  so 

lovast  as  the  bodily  eye  is  not  fitted  to  receive. 
Space  swelled,  and  was  amplified  to  an  extent  of 
unutterable  infinity.  This,  however,  did  not  dis- 
turb me  so  much  as  the  vast  expansion  of  time.  I 
sometimes  seemed  to  have  lived  for  seventy  or  one 

15  hundred  years  in  one  night;  nay,  sometimes  had 
feelings  representative  of  a  millennium,  passed  in 
that  time,  or,  however,  of  a  duration  far  beyond  the 
limits  of  any  human  experience. 

IV.  The  minutest  incidents  of  childhood,  or  for- 
20  gotten  scenes  of  later  years,  were  often  revived.    I 

could  not  be  said  to  recollect  them;  for  if  I  had  been 
told  of  them  when  waking,  I  should  not  have  been 
able  to  acknowledge  them  as  parts  of  my  past  ex- 
perience.    But  placed  as  they  were  before  me,  in 

25  dreams  like  intuitions,  and  clothed  in  all  their  evan- 
escent circumstances  and  accompanying  feelings,  I 
recognized  them  instantaneously.  I  was  once  told 
by  a  near  relative  of  mine,  that  having  in  her  child- 
hood fallen  into  a  river,  and  being  on  the  very 

30  verge  of  death  but  for  the  critical  assistance  which 
reached  her,  she  saw  in  a  moment  her  whole  life, 
in  its  minutest  incidents,  arrayed  before  her  simulta^ 
neously  as  in  a  mirror;  and  she  had  a  faculty  de- 
veloped as  suddenly  for  comprehending  the  whole 


50  DESCRIPTION. 

and  every  part.  This,  from  some  opium  experi- 
ences of  mine,  I  can  believe;  I  have,  indeed,  seen 
the  same  thing  asserted  twice  in  modern  books,  and 
accompanied  by  a  remark  which  I  am  convinced  is 
true,  namely,  that  the  dread  book  of  account,  which  5 
the  Scriptures  speak  of,  is,  in  fact,  the  mind  itself 
of  each  individual.  Of  this,  at  least,  I  feel  assured, 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  forgetting  possible  to 
the  mind;  a  thousand  accidents  may  and  will  inter- 
pose a  veil  between  our  present  consciousness  and  lo 
the  secret  inscriptions  on  the  mind.  Accidents  of 
the  same  sort  will  also  rend  away  this  veil ;  but  alike, 
whether  veiled  or  unveiled,  the  inscription  remains 
forever;  just  as  the  stars  seem  to  withdraw  before 
the  common  light  of  day,  whereas,  in  fact,  we  all  15 
know  that  it  is  the  light  which  is  drawn  over  them 
as  a  veil;  and  that  they  are  waiting  to  be  revealed, 
when  the  obscuring  daylight  shall  have  withdrawn. 
— Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater. 

Notes. — M.  George  Auriol  describes  a  subjective  mental 
state,  but  in  such  a  way  that  he  seems  quite  under  its  20 
illusion  ;  the  magic  of  the  music  seems  to  him  to  change 
the  room  itself.     De  Quincey,  on  the  other  hand,  possessed 
above  most  men  the  power  of  consciously  analyzing  and 
describing  his   own   physical  and   mental  states.     Such  a 
power  commonly  gives  rise  to  scientific  rather  than  artistic  25 
description,    thoiigh   the   great  beauty  of    De    Quincey's 
records,  and  of  similar  passages  in  the  so-called  psycho- 
logical novelists,  can  hardly  be  denied.     Such  a  gift  has 
perhaps  a  practical  value.     Conceivably,  medicine  might 
do  more  toward  the  alleviation  of  suffering  if  the  sufferer  30 
could  state  where  and  how  "it  hurts."     Few  people  are 
able  to  describe  their   own  physical  symptoms   with  any 
exactitude,  though  it  must  be   confessed  that  the  com- 


THE   NON-THINICING  LEVEL.  5^ 

parisons  of  a  sick  child  or  peasant  are  often  more  descrip- 
tive than  those  of  his  superiors  in  schooling. 

25.— ;rbe  IRonsirbinWng  Xevel. 

WILLIAM   JAMES. 

The  intense  interest  that  hfe  can  assume  when 
brought  down  to  the  non-thinking  level,  the  level  of 
5  pure  sensorial  perception,  has  been  beautifully  de- 
scribed by  a  man  who  can  write — Mr.  W.  H.  Hud- 
son, in  his  volume,  "  Idle  Days  in  Patagonia." 

"  I  spent  the  greater  part  of  one  winter,"  says  this 
admirable  author,  "  at  a  point  on  the  Rio  Negro, 

lo  seventy  or  eighty  miles  from  the  sea. 

".  .  .  It  was  my  custom  to  go  out  every 
morning  on  horseback  with  my  gun,  and,  followed 
by  one  dog,  to  ride  away  from  the  valley;  and  no 
sooner  would  I  climb  the  terrace,  and  plunge  into 

15  the  gray,  universal  thicket,  than  I  would  find  my- 
self as  completely  alone  as  if  five  hundred  instead  of 
only  five  miles  separated  me  from  the  valley  and 
river.  So  wild  and  solitary  and  remote  seemed  that 
gray  waste,  stretching  away  into  infinitude,  a  waste 

2o  untrodden  by  man,  and  where  the  wild  animals  are 
so  few  that  they  have  made  no  discoverable  path  in 
the  wilderness  of  thorns.  .  .  Not  once  nor  twice 
nor  thrice,  but  day  after  day  I  returned  to  this  soli- 
tude, going  to  it  in  the  morning  as  if  to  attend  a  fes- 

25  tival,  and  leaving  it  only  when  hunger  and  thirst 
and  the  westering  sun  compelled  me.  And  yet  I 
had  no  object  in  going, — no  motive  which  could  be 
put  into  words;  for,  although  I  carried  a  gun,  there 
was  nothing  to  shoot, — the  shooting  was  all  left 

30  behind    in    the    valley.    .    .    Sometimes    I    would 


52  DESCRIPTION. 

pass  a  whole  day  without  seeing  one  mammal,  and 
perhaps  not  more  than  a  dozen  birds  of  any  size. 
The  weather  at  that  time  was  cheerless,  generally 
with  a  gray  film  of  cloud  spread  over  the  sky,  and 
a  bleak  wind,  often  cold  enough  to  make  my  bridle-  5 
hand  quite  numb.  .  .  At  a  slow  pace,  which  would 
have  seemed  intolerable  under  other  circumstances, 
I  would  ride  about  for  hours  together  at  a  stretch. 
On  arriving  at  a  hill,  I  would  slowly  ride  to 
its  summit,  and  stand  there  to  survey  the  prospect.  10 
On  every  side  it  stretched  away  in  great  undula- 
tions, wild  and  irregular.  How  gray  it  all  was! 
Hardly  less  so  near  at  hand  than  on  the  haze- 
wrapped  horizon  where  the  hills  were  dim  and  the 
outline  obscured  by  distance.  Descending  from  15 
my  outlook,  I  would  take  up  my  aimless  wanderings 
again,  and  visit  other  elevations  to  gaze  on  the  same 
landscape  from  another  point;  and  so  on  for  hours. 
And  at  noon  I  would  dismount,  and  sit  or  lie  on 
my  folded  poncho  for  an  hour  or  longer.  One  day  20 
in  these  rambles  I  discovered  a  small  grove  com- 
posed of  twenty  or  thirty  trees,  growing  at  a  con- 
venient distance  apart,  that  had  evidently  been  re- 
sorted to  by  a  herd  of  deer  or  other  wild  animals. 
This  grove  was  on  a  hill  differing  in  shape  from  25 
other  hills  in  its  neighborhood;  and,  after  a  time,  I 
made  a  point  of  finding  and  using  it  as  a  resting 
place  every  day  at  noon.  I  did  not  ask  myself  why 
I  made  choice  of  that  one  spot,  sometimes  going 
out  of  my  way  to  sit  there,  instead  of  sitting  down  30 
under  any  one  of  the  millions  of  trees  and  bushes  on 
any  other  hillside.  I  thought  nothing  about  it,  but 
acted  unconsciously.  Only  afterward  it  seemed  to 
me  that,  after  having  rested  there  once,  each  time  I 


THE  NON-THINKING  LEVEL.  53 

wished  to  rest  again,  the  wish  came  associated  with 
the  image  of  that  particular  clump  of  trees,  with 
polished  stems  and  clean  bed  of  sand  beneath;  and 
in  a  short  time  I  formed  a  habit  of  returning,  animal 
5  like,  to  repose  at  that  same  spot. 

"  It  was,  perhaps,  a  mistake  to  say  that  I  would 
sit  down  and  rest,  since  I  was  never  tired;  and  yet, 
without  being  tired,  that  noon-day  pause,  during 
which    I    sat   for   an    hour   without    moving,    was 

lo  strangely  grateful.  All  day  there  would  be  no 
sound,  not  even  the  rustling  of  a  leaf.  One  day, 
while  listcnvng  to  the  silence,  it  occurred  to  my  mind 
to  wonder  what  the  effect  would  be  if  I  were  to 
shout  aloud.     This  seemed  at  the  time  a  horrible 

15  suggestion,  which  almost  made  me  shudder.  But 
during  those  solitary  days  it  was  a  rare  thing 
for  any  thought  to  cross  my  mind.  In  the 
state  of  mind  I  was  in,  thought  had  become 
impossible.     My    state   was    one    of   suspense   and 

20  watchfulness;  yet  I  had  no  expectation  of  meet- 
ing an  adventure,  and  felt  as  free  from  apprehension 
as  I  feel  now  while  sitting  in  a  room  in  London, 
The  state  seemed  familiar  rather  than  strange,  and 
accompanied  by  a  strong  feeling  of  elation;  and  I 

25  did  not  know  that  something  had  come  between  me 

and  my  intellect  until  I  returned  to  my  former  self 

— to  thinking,  and  the  old  insipid  existence  [again]. 

"  I  had  undoubtedly  gmie  back;  and  that  state  of 

intense  watchfulness  or  alertness,  rather,  with  sus- 

30  pension  of  the  higher  intellectual  faculties,  repre- 
sented the  mental  state  of  the  pure  savage.  He 
thinks  little,  reasons  little,  having  a  surer  guide  in 
his  [mere  sensory  perceptions].  He  is  in  perfect 
harmony  with  nature,  and  is  nearly  on  a  level,  men- 


54  DESCRIPTION. 

tally,  with  the  wild  animals  he  preys  on,  and  which 
in  their  turn  sometimes  prey  on  him." 

'For  the  spectator,  such  hours  as   Mr.   Hudson 
writes  of  form  a  mere  tale  of  emptiness,  in  which 
nothing  happens,  nothing  is  gained,  and  there  is  5 
nothing  to  describe.     They  are  meaningless  and  va- 
cant tracts  of  time.     To  him  who  feels  their  inner 
secret,  they  tingle  with  an  importance  that  unut- 
terably vouches  for  itself.     I  am  sorry  for  the  boy 
or  girl,  or  man  or  woman,  who  has  never  been  lo 
touched  by  the  spell  of  this  mysterious  sensorial  life, 
with  its  irrationality,  if  so  you  like  to  call  it,  but  its 
vigilance  and  its  supreme  felicity.     The  holidays  of 
life  are  its  most  vitally  significant  portions,  because 
they  are,  or  at  least  should  be,  covered  with  just  this  15 
kind  of  magically  irresponsible  spell. 

—  Talks    to    Teachers    on    Psychology.      New 
York :   Henry  Holt  &^   Co. 

Notes. — Since  the  days  of  De  Quincey,  the  study  of 
psychology  has  led  to  very  interesting  descriptions  of 
psychological  states.  Professor  James's  essay  On  a  Car-  20 
tain  Blindness  in  Human  Beings '  is  full  of  such  descrip- 
tion, sufficiently  regardful  of  scientific  method,  yet  possess- 
ing a  fine  literary  charm.  The  selection  includes  a  long 
quotation  from  Mr.  W.  H.  Hudson,  in  which  a  curious 
mental  state  is  admirably  described,  and  is  explained  by  25 
reference  to  the  evolutionary  hypothesis. 

'  In  "  Talks  to  Teachers  on  Psychology," 


CHAPTER  II. 

NARRATION. 

26.— passage  of  tbe  /Hbountafns.' 

FRANCIS  PARKMAN. 

When  I  took  leave  of  Shaw  at  La  Bonte's  camp, 
I  promised  to  meet  him  at  Fort  Laramie  on  the 
first  of  August.  The  Indians,  too,  intended  to  pass 
the  mountains  and  move  towards  the  fort.     To  do 

5  so  at  this  point  was  impossible,  because  there  was 
no  passage;  and  in  order  to  find  one  we  were 
obliged  to  go  twelve  or  fourteen  miles  southward. 
Late  in  the  afternoon  the  camp  got  in  motion.  1 
rode  in  company  with  three  or  four  young  Indians 

lo  at  the  rear,  and  the  moving  swarm  stretched  before 
me,  in  the  ruddy  light  of  sunset,  or  the  deep  shadow 
of  the  mountains,  far  beyond  my  sights  It  was  an 
ill-omened  spot  they  chose  to  encamp  upon.  When 
they  were  there  just  a  year  before,  a  war-party  of 

15  ten  men,  led  by  The  Whirlwind's  son,  had  gone  out 
against  the  enemy,  and  not  one  had  ever  returned. 
This  was  the  immediate  cause  of  this  season's  war- 
like preparations.  I  was  not  a  little  astonished, 
when  I  came  to  the  camp,  at  the  confusion  of  hor- 

2orible  sounds  with  which  it  was  filled;  howls,  shrieks, 
and  wailings  rose  from  all  the  women  present,  many 

1  Reprinted  from  "Tlie  Oregon  Trail,"  by  permission  of  the  pub- 
lishers, Messrs.  Little,  Brown  &  Qo, 


56  NARRATION. 

of  whom,  not  content  with  this  exhibition  of  g^ief 
for  the  loss  of  their  friends  and  relatives,  were  gash- 
ing their  legs  deeply  with  knives.  A  warrior  in 
the  village,  who  had  lost  a  brother  in  the  expedition, 
chose  another  mode  of  displaying  his  sorrow.  The  5 
Indians,  who,  though  often  rapacious,  are  devoid  of 
avarice,  will  sometimes,  when  in  mourning,  or  on 
other  solemn  occasions,  give  away  the  whole  of 
their  possessions,  and  reduce  themselves  to  naked- 
ness and  want.  Tlie  warrior  in  question  led  his  10 
two  best  horses  into  the  middle  of  the  village,  and 
gave  them  away  to  his  friends;  upon  which,  songs 
and  acclamations  in  praise  of  his  generosity  mingled 
with  the  cries  of  the  women. 

On  the  next  morning  we  entered  again  among  15 
the  mountains.     There  was  nothing  in  their  appear- 
ance either  grand  or  picturesque,  though  they  were 
desolate  to  the  last  degree,  being  mere  piles  of  black 
and  broken  rocks,  without  trees  or  vegetation  of 
any  kind.     As  we  passed  among  them  along  a  wide  20 
valley,  I  noticed  Raymond  riding  by  the  side  of  a 
young  squaw,  to  whom  he  was  addressing  various 
compliments.     All  the  old  squaws  in  the  neighbor- 
hood watched  his  proceedings  in  great  admiration, 
and  the  girl  herself  would  turn  aside  her  head  and  25 
laugh.     Just  then  his  mule  thought  proper  to  dis- 
play her  vicious  pranks,  and  began  to  rear  and 
plunge  most  furiously.     Raymond  was  an  excellent 
rider,  and  at  first  he  stuck  fast  in  his  seat;  but  the 
moment  after,  I  saw  the  mule's  hind  legs  flourishing 30 
in  the  air,  and  my  unlucky  follower  pitching  head 
foremost   over   her   ears.     There   was   a   burst   of 
screams  and  laughter  from  all  the  women,  in  v>'hich 
his  mistress  herself  took  part,  and  Raymond  was 


PASSAGE   OF    THE   MOUNTAINS.  SI 

assailed  by  such  a  shower  of  witticisms,  that  he  was 
glad  to  ride  forward  out  of  hearing. 

Not  long  after,  as  I  rode  near  him,  I  heard  him 
shouting  to  me.  He  was  pointing  towards  a  de- 
5  tached  rocky  hill  that  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
valley  before  us,  and  from  behind  it  a  long  file  of 
elk  came  out  at  full  speed  and  entered  an  opening 
in  the  mountain.  They  had  scarcely  disappeared, 
when  whoops  and   exclamations   came  from   fifty 

lo  voices  around  me.  The  young  men  leaped  from 
their  horses,  flung  down  their  heavy  buffalo  robes, 
and  ran  at  full  speed  towards  the  foot  of  the  nearest 
mountain.  Reynal  also  broke  away  at  a  gallop  in 
the   same   direction,     "Come  on!   come   on!"   he 

I J  called  to  us.  "  Do  you  see  that  band  of  big-horn 
up  yonder?  If  there's  one  of  them,  there's  a  hun- 
dred!" 

In  fact,  near  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  I  could 
see  a  large  number  of  small  white  objects,  moving 

20  rapidly  upward  among  the  precipices,  while  others 
were  filing  along  its  rocky  profile.  Anxious  to  see 
the  sport,  I  galloped  forward,  and  entering  a  passage 
in  the  side  of  the  mountain,  ascended  among  the 
loose  rocks  as  far  as  my  horse  could  carry  me. 

25  Here  I  fastened  her  to  an  old  pine-tree.  At  that 
moment  Raymond  called  to  me  from  the  right  that 
another  band  of  sheep  was  close  at  hand  in  that  di- 
rection. I  ran  up  to  the  top  of  the  opening,  which 
gave  me  a  full  view  into  the  rocky  gorge  beyond; 

30  and  here  I  plainly  saw  some  fifty  or  sixty  sheep,  al- 
most within  rifle-shot,  clattering  upwards  among  the 
rocks,  and  endeavoring,  after  their  usual  custom,  to 
reach  the  highest  point.  The  naked  Indians 
bounded  up  lightly  in  pursuit.    In  a  moment  the 


S8  Narration. 

game  and  hunters  disappeared.  Nothing  could  be 
seen  or  heard  but  the  occasional  report  of  a  gun, 
more  and  more  distant,  reverberating  among  the 
rocks. 

I  turned  to  descend,  and  as  I  did  so,  could  see  the  5 
valley   beloM^   alive   with   Indians   passing   rapidly 
through  it,  on  horseback  and  on  foot.     A  little  far- 
ther on,  all  were  stopping  as  they  came  up;  the 
camp  was  preparing  and  the  lodges  rising.     I  de- 
scended to  this  spot,  and  soon  after  Reynal  and  Ray- 10 
mond  returned.     They  bore  between  them  a  sheep 
which  they  had  pelted  to  death  with  stones  from  the 
edge  of  a  ravine,  along  the  bottom  of  which  it  was 
attempting  to  escape.     One   by   one  the   hunters 
came  dropping  in;  yet  such  is  the  activity  of  the  1.5 
Rocky  Mountain  sheep  that  although  sixty  or  sev- 
enty men  were  out  in  pursuit,  not  more  than  half  a 
dozen  animals  were  killed.     Of  these  only  one  was 
a  full-grown  male.     He  had  a  pair  of  horns,  the  di- 
mensions of  which  were  almost  beyond  belief.     1 20 
have  seen  among  the  Indian  ladles  with  long  han- 
dles, capable  of  containing  more  than  a  quart,  cut 
out  from  such  horns. 

Through  the  whole  of  the  next  morning  we  were 
moving  forward  among  the  hills.  On  the  follow- 25 
ing  day  the  heights  closed  around  us,  and  the  pas- 
sage of  the  mountains  began  in  earnest.  Before 
the  village  left  its  'camping-ground,  I  set  forward 
in  company  with  the  Eagle-Feather,  a  man  of  pow- 
erful frame,  but  with  a  bad  and  sinister  face.  His  30 
son,  a  light-limbed  boy,  rode  with  us,  and  another 
Indian,  named  The  Panther,  was  also  of  the  party. 
Leaving  the  village  out  of  sight  behind  us,  we 
rode  together  up  a  rocky  defile.     After  a  while, 


FASSACE   OF   THE  MOUNTAINS.  59 

however,  the  Eagle-Feather  discovered  in  the  dis- 
tance some  appearance  of  game,  and  set  off  with 
his  son  in  pursuit  of  it,  while  I  went  forward  with 
The  Panther.  This  was  a  mere  nom  de  guerre;  for, 
5  Hke  many  Indians,  he  concealed  his  real  name  out 
of  some  superstitious  notion.  He  was  a  noble- 
looking  fellow.  As  he  suffered  his  ornamented 
buffalo-robe  to  fall  in  folds  about  his  loins,  his 
stately  and  graceful  figure  was  fully  displayed;  and 

1®  while  he  sat  his  horse  in  an  easy  attitude,  the  long 
feathers  of  the  prairie-cock  fluttering  from  the 
crown  of  his  head,  he  seemed  the  very  model  of  a 
wild  prairie-rider.  He  had  not  the  same  features 
with  those  of  other  Indians.    Unless  his  face  greatly 

isbeHed  him,  he  was  free  from  the  jealousy,  suspicion, 
and  malignant  cunning  of  his  people.  For  the 
most  part,  a  civilized  white  m.an  can  discover  very 
few  points  of  sympathy  between  his  own  nature  and 
that  of  an  Indian.     With  every  disposition  to  do 

20  justice  to  their  good  qualities,  he  must  be  conscious 
that  an  impassable  gulf  lies  between  him  and  his 
red  brethren.  Nay,  so  alien  to  himself  do  they  ap- 
pear that,  after  breathing  the  air  of  the  prairie  for 
a  few  months  or  weeks,  he  begins  to  look  upoi? 

25  them  as  a  troublesome  and  dangerous  species  of 
wild  beast.  Yet,  in  the  countenance  of  The  Pan- 
thei",  I  gladly  read  that  there  were  at  least  some 
points  of  sympathy  between  him  and  me.  We  were 
excellent  friends,  and  as  we  rode  forward  together 

30  through  rocky  passages,  deep  dells,  and  little  barren 
plains,  he  occupied  himself  very  zealously  in  teach- 
ing me  the  Dahcotah  language.  After  a  while,  we 
came  to  a  grassy  recess,  where  some  gooseberry 
bushes  were  growing  at  the  foot  of  a  rock;  and  these 


6o  NARRA  TION. 

offered  such  temptation  to  my  companion  that  he 
gave  over  his  instructions,  and  stopped  so  long  to 
gather  the  fruit  that  before  we  were  in  motion  again 
the  van  of  the  village  came  in  view.  'An  old 
woman  appeared,  leading  down  her  pack-horse  5 
among  the  rocks  above.  Savage  after  savage  fol- 
lowed, and  the  little  dell  was  soon  crowded  with  the 
throng. 

That  morning's  march  was  one  not  to  be  for- 
gotten. It  led  us  through  a  sublime  waste,  a  wil-io 
derness  of  mountains  and  pine  forests,  over  which 
the  spirit  of  loneliness  and  silence  seemed  brood- 
ing. Above  and  below,  little  could  be  seen  but 
the  same  dark-green  foliage.  It  overspread  the 
valleys,  and  enveloped  the  mountains,  from  the  15 
black  rocks  that  crowned  their  summits  to  the 
streams  that  circled  round  their  base.  I  rode  to 
the  top  of  a  hill  whence  I  could  look  down  on  the 
savage  procession  as  it  passed  beneath  my  feet,  and, 
far  on  the  left,  could  see  its  thin  and  broken  line,  20 
visible  only  at  intervals,  stretching  away  for  miles 
among  the  mountains.  On  the  farthest  ridge, 
horsemen  were  still  descending  like  mere  specks 
in  the  distance. 

I  remained  on  the  hill  until  all  had  passed,  and  25 
then  descending  followed  after  them.  A  little  far- 
ther on  I  found  a  very  small  meadow,  set  deeply 
among  steep  mountains ;  and  here  the  whole  village 
had  encamped.  The  little  spot  was  crowded  with  the 
confused  and  disorderly  host.  Some  of  the  lodges  3^ 
were  already  set  up,  or  the  squaws  perhaps  were 
busy  in  drawing  the  heavy  coverings  of  skin  over 
the  bare  poles.  Others  were  as  yet  mere  skeletons, 
while  others  still,  poles,  covering,  and  all,  lay  scat- 


PASSAGE   OF    THE  MOUNTAINS.  6 1 

tered  in  disorder  on  the  ground  among  buffalo 
robes,  bales  of  meat,  domestic  utensils,  harness,  and 
weapons.  Squaws  were  screaming  to  one  another, 
horses  rearing  and  plunging,  dogs  yelping,  eager 
5  to  be  disburdened  of  their  loads,  while  the  flutter- 
ing of  feathers  and  the  gleam  of  savage  ornaments 
added  liveliness  to  the  scene.  The  small  children 
ran  about  amid  the  crowd,  while  many  of  the  boys 
were   scrambling   among   the   overhanging   rocks, 

loand  standing  with  their  little  bows  in  their  hands, 
looking  down  upon  the  restless  throng.  In  con- 
trast with  the  general  confusion,  a  circle  of  old  men 
and  warriors  sat  in  the  midst,  smoking  in  profound 
indifference  and  tranquillity.    The  disorder  at  length 

t5  subsided.  The  horses  were  driven  away  to  feed 
along  the  adjacent  valley,  and  the  camp  assumed 
an  air  of  listless  repose.  It  was  scarcely  past  noon; 
a  vast  white  canopy  of  smoke  from  a  burning  forest 
to  the  eastward  overhung  the  place,  and  partially 

20 obscured  the  rays  of  the  sun;  yet  the  heat  was  al- 
most insupportable.  The  lodges  stood  crowded  to- 
gether without  order  in  the  narrow  space.  Each 
was  a  hot-house,  within  which  the  lazy  proprietor 
lay    sleeping.     The    camp    was    silent    as    death. 

25  Nothing  stirred  except  now  and  then  an  old  woman 
passing  from  lodge  to  lodge.  The  girls  and  young 
men  sat  together  in  groups,  under  the  pine  trees 
upon  the  surrounding  heights.  The  dogs  lay 
panting  on  the  ground,  too  languid  even  to  growl 

30  at  the  white  man.  At  the  entrance  of  the  meadow, 
there  was  a  cold  spring  among  the  rocks,  com- 
pletely overshadowed  by  tall  trees  and  dense  under- 
growth. In  this  cool  and  shady  retreat  a  number 
of  girls  were  assembled,  sitting  together  on  rocks 


62  NARRA  TION. 

and  fallen  logs,  discussing  the  latest  gossip  of  the 
village,  or  laughing  and  throwing  water  with  their 
hands  at  the  intruding  Meneaska.  The  minutes 
seemed  lengthened  into  hours.  I  lay  for  a  long 
time  under  a  tree  studying  the  Ogillallah  tongue,  5 
with  the  aid  of  my  friend  The  Panther.  When  we 
were  both  tired  of  this,  I  lay  down  by  the  side  of  a 
deep,  clear  pool,  formed  by  the  water  of  the  spring. 
A  shoal  of  Httle  fishes  of  about  a  pin's  length  were 
playing  in  it,  sporting  together,  as  it  seemed,  very  10 
amicably;  but  on  closer  observation,  I  saw  that  they 
were  engaged  in  cannibal  warfare  among  them- 
selves. Now  and  then  one  of  the  smallest  would 
fall  a  victim,  and  immediately  disappear  down  the 
maw  of  his  conqueror.  Every  moment,  however,  15 
the  tyrant  of  the  pool,  a  goggle-eyed  monster  about 
three  inches  long,  would  slowly  emerge  with  quiv- 
ering fins  and  tail  from  under  the  shelving  bank. 
Tlie  small  fry  at  this  would  suspend  their  hostilities, 
and  scatter  in  a  panic  at  the  appearanc?^  of  over- 20 
whelming  force. 

"  Soft-hearted  philanthropists,"  thought  I,  "  may 
tiigh  long  for  their  peaceful  millennium;  for,  from 
minnows  to  men,  life  is  incessant  war." 

Evening  approached  at  last;  the  crests  of  the 25 
mountains  were  still  bright  in  sunshine,  while  our 
deep  glen  was  completely  shadowed.  I  left  the 
camp,  and  climbed  a  neighboring  hill.  The  sun 
was  still  glaring  through  the  stiff  pines  on  the  ridge 
of  the  western  mountain.  In  a  moment  he  was  30 
gone,  and,  as  the  landscape  darkened,  I  turned 
again  towards  the  village.  As  I  descended,  the 
howling  of  wolves  and  the  barking  of  foxes  came  up 
out  of  the  dim  woods  from  far  and  near.    The  camp 


PASSAGE   OF   THE  MOUNTAINS.  (^l 

was  glowing  with  a  multitude  of  fires,  and  alive  with 
dusky  naked  figures,  whose  tall  shadows  flitted, 
weird  and  ghost-like,  among  the  surrounding 
crags. 
5  I  found  a  circle  of  smokers  seated  in  their  usual 
place;  that  is,  on  the  ground  before  the  lodge  of  a 
certain  warrior,  who  seemed  to  be  generally  known 
for  his  social  qualities.  I  sat  down  to  smoke  a 
parting  pipe  with  my  savage  friends.     That  day  was 

lothe  first  of  August,  on  which  I  had  promised  to 
meet  Shaw  at  Fort  Laramie.  The  fort  was  less 
than  two  days'  journey  distant,  and  that  my  friend 
need  not  suffer  anxiety  on  my  account,  I  resolved 
to  push  forward  as  rapidly  as  possible  to  the  place 

15  of  meeting.  1  went  to  look  after  the  Hail-Storm, 
and  having  found  him,  I  offered  him  a  handful  of 
hawks'-bells  and  a  paper  of  vermilion,  on  condition 
that  he  would  guide  me  in  the  morning  through  the 
mountains. 

20  The  Hail-Storm  ejaculated  "  Hozu! "  and  ac- 
cepted the  gift.  Nothing  more  was  said  on  either 
side;  the  matter  was  settled,  and  I  lay  down  to 
sleep  in  Kongra-Tonga's  lodge. 

Long  before  daylight,  Raymond  shook  me  by  the 

25  shoulder. 

"  Everything  is  ready,"  he  said. 
I  went  out.     The  morning  was  chill,  damp,  and 
dark;   and  the   whole   camp   seemed   asleep.     The 
Hail-Storm  sat  on  horseback  before  the  lodge,  and 

30  my  mare  Pauline  and  the  mule  which  Raymond, 
rode  were  picketed  near  it.  We  saddled  and  made 
our  other  arrangements  for  the  journey,  but  before 
these  were  completed  the  camp  began  to  stir,  and 
the   lodge-coverings   fluttered   and   rustled   as   the 


64  NARRA  TION. 

squaws  pulled  them  down  in  preparation  for  de- 
parture. Just  as  the  light  began  to  appear,  we  left 
the  ground,  passing  up  through  a  narrow  opening 
among  the  rocks  which  led  eastward  out  of  the 
meadow.  Gaining  the  top  of  this  passage,  I  turned  5 
and  sat  looking  back  upon  the  camp,  dimly  visible 
in  the  gray  light  of  morning.  All  was  alive  with 
the  bustle  of  preparation.  I  turned  away,  half  un- 
willing to  take  a  final  leave  of  my  savage  associates. 
We  passed  among  the  rocks  and  pine  trees,  so  dark  lo 
that  for  a  while  we  could  scarcely  see  our  way.  The 
country  in  front  was  wild  and  broken,  half  hill,  half 
plain,  partly  open  and  partly  covered  with  woods  of 
pine  and  oak.  Barriers  of  lofty  mountains  encom- 
passed it;  the  woods  were  fresh  and  cool  in  the  15 
early  morning,  the  peaks  of  the  mountains  were 
wreathed  with  mist,  and  sluggish  vapors  were  en- 
tangled among  the  forests  upon  their  sides.  At 
length  the  black  pinnacle  of  the  tallest  mountain 
was  tipped  with  gold  by  the  rising  sun.  The  Hail- 20 
Storm,  who  rode  in  front,  gave  a  low  exclamation. 
Some  large  animal  leaped  up  from  among  the 
bushes,  and  an  elk,  as  I  thought,  his  horns  thrown 
back  over  his  neck,  darted  past  us  across  the  open 
space,  and  bounded  like  a  mad  thing  away  among  25 
the  adjoining  pines.  Raymond  was  soon  out  of  his 
saddle,  but  before  he  could  fire,  the  animal  was 
full  two  hundred  yards  distant.  The  ball  struck  its 
mark,  though  much  too  low  for  mortal  effect.  The 
elk,  however,  wheeled  in  his  flight,  and  ran  at  full  30 
speed  among  the  trees,  nearly  at  right  angles  to 
his  former  course.  I  fired  and  broke  his  shoulder; 
still  he  moved  on,  limping  down  into  a  neighboring 
woody  hollow,  whither  the  young  Indian  followed 


PASSAGE   OF    THE   MOUNTAINS.  65 

and  killed  him.  When  we  reached  the  spot,  we  dis- 
covered him  to  be  no  elk,  but  a  black-tailed  deer,  an 
animal  nearly  twice  as  large  as  the  common  deer, 
and  quite  unknown  in  the  East.  The  reports  of  the 
5  rifles  had  reached  the  ears  of  the  Indians,  and  sev- 
eral of  them  came  to  the  spot.  Leaving  the  hide  of 
the  deer  to  the  Hail-Storm,  we  hung  as  much  of  the 
meat  as  we  wanted  behind  our  saddles,  left  the  rest 
to  the  Indians,  and  resumed  our  journey.     Mean- 

10  while  the  village  was  on  its  way,  and  had  gone  so 
far  that  to  get  in  advance  of  it  was  impossible.  We 
directed  our  course  so  as  to  strike  its  line  of  march 
at  the  nearest  point.  In  a  short  time,  through  the 
dark  trunks  of  the  pines,  we  could  see  the  figures  of 

15  the  Indians  as  they  passed.  Once  more  we  were 
among  them.  They  were  moving  with  even  more 
than  their  usual  precipitation,  crowded  together  in 
a  narrow  pass  between  rocks  and  old  pine  trees. 
We  were  on  the  eastern  descent  of  the  mountain, 

20  and  soon  came  to  a  rough  and  difficult  defile,  lead- 
ing down  a  very  steep  declivity.  The  whole  swarm 
poured  down  together,  filling  the  rocky  passageway 
like  some  turbulent  mountain  stream.  The  moun- 
tains before  us  were  on  fire,  and  had  been  so  for 

25  weeks.  The  view  in  front  was  obscured  by  a  vast 
dim  sea  of  smoke,  while  on  either  hand  rose  the 
tall  cliffs,  bearing  aloft  their  crests  of  pines,  and  the 
sharp  pinnacles  and  broken  ridges  of  the  moun- 
tains beyond  were  faintly  traceable  as  through  a 

30  veil.  The  scene  in  itself  was  grand  and  imposing, 
but  with  the  savage  multitude,  the  armed  warriors, 
the  naked  children,  the  gayly  appareled  girls,  pour- 
ing impetuously  down  the  heights,  it  would  have 
formed  a  noble  subject  for  a  painter,  and  only  the 


66  NARI^A  TION. 

pen  of  a  Scott  could  have  done  it  justice  in  descrip- 
tion. 

We  passed  over  a  burned  tract  where  the  ground 
was  hot  beneath  the  horses'  feet,  and  between  the 
blazing-  sides  of  two  mountains.  Before  long  we  s 
had  descended  to  a  softer  region,  Vv^here  we  found  a 
succession  of  little  valleys  watered  by  a  stream, 
along  the  borders  of  which  grew  abundance  of  v/ild 
gooseberries  and  currants,  and  the  children  and 
many  of  the  men  straggled  from  the  line  of  march  lo 
to  gather  them  as  we  passed  along.  Descending 
still  farther,  the  view  changed  rapidly.  The  burn- 
ing mountains  were  behind  us,  and  through  the 
open  valleys  in  front  we  could  see  the  prairie,  stretch- 
ing like  an  ocean  beyond  the  sight.  After  passing  15 
through  a  line  of  trees  that  skirted  the  brook,  the 
Indians  filed  out  upon  the  plains.  I  was  thirsty 
and  knelt  down  by  the  little  stream  to  drink.  As 
I  mounted  again,  I  very  carelessly  left  my  rifle 
among  the  grass,  and  my  thoughts  being  otherwise  20 
absorbed,  I  rode  for  some  distance  before  discover- 
ing its  absence.  I  lost  no  time  in  turning  about  and 
galloping  back  in  search  of  it.  Passing  the  line  of 
Indians,  I  watched  every  warrior  as  he  rode  by  me 
at  a  canter,  and  at  length  discovered  my  rifle  in  the  25 
hands  of  one  of  them,  who,  on  my  approaching  to 
claim  it,  immediately  gave  it  up.  Having  no  other 
means  of  acknowledging  the  obligation,  I  took  ofT 
one  of  my  spurs  and  gave  it  to  him.  'He  was 
greatly  delighted,  looking  upon  it  as  a  distinguished  3" 
mark  of  favor,  and  immediately  held  out  his  foot 
for  me  to  buckle  it  on.  As  soon  as  I  had  done  so, 
he  struck  it  with  all  his  force  into  the  side  of  his 
horse,    which    gave    a   violent    leap.     The    Indian 


PASSAGE   OF    THE  MOUNTAINS.  67 

laughed  and  spurred  harder  than  before.  At  this 
the  horse  shot  away  Hke  an  arrow,  amid  the  screams 
and  laughter  of  the  squaws,  and  the  ejaculations  of 
the  men,  who  exclaimed:  "  Washtay! — Good!"  at 
5  the  potent  effect  of  my  gift.  The  Indian  had  no 
saddle,  and  nothing  in  place  of  a  bridle  except  a 
leather  string  tied  round  the  horse's  jaw.  The  ani- 
mal was  of  course  wholly  uncontrollable,  and 
stretched  away  at  full  speed  over  the  prairie,  till  he 

10  and  his  rider  vanished  behind  a  distant  swell.  I 
never  saw  the  man  again,  but  I  presume  no  harm 
came  to  him.  An  Indian  on  horseback  has  more 
lives  than  a  cat. 

The  village  encamped  on  the  scorching  prairie, 

15  close  to  the  foot  of  the  mountains.  The  heat  was 
most  intense  and  penetrating.  The  coverings  of 
the  lodgings  were  raised  a  foot  or  more  from  the 
ground,  in  order  to  procure  some  circulation  of 
air;  and  Reynal  thought  proper  to  lay  aside  his 

20  trapper's  dress  of  buckskin  and  assume  the  very 
scanty  costume  of  an  Indian.  Thus  elegantly  at- 
tired, he  stretched  himself  in  his  lodge  on  a  buffalo- 
robe,  alternately  cursing  the  heat  and  puffing  at  the 
pipe  which  he  and  I  passed  between  us.     There  was 

25  present  also  a  select  circle  of  Indian  friends  and 
relatives.  A  small  boiled  puppy  was  served  up  as  a 
parting  feast,  to  which  was  added,  by  way  of  des- 
sert, a  wooden  bowl  of  gooseberries  from  the  moun- 
tains. 

30  "  Look  there,"  said  Reynal,  pointing  out  of  the 
opening  of  his  lodge;  "  do  you  see  that  line  of  buttes 
about  fifteen  miles  off?  Well,  now  do  you  see  that 
farthest  one,  with  the  white  speck  on  the  face  of  it? 
Do  you  think  you  ever  saw  it  before?  " 


68  NARRATION. 

"  It  looks  to  me,"  said  I,  "  like  the  hill  that  we 
were  'camped  under  when  we  were  on  Laramie 
Creek,  six  or  eight  weeks  ago." 

"  You've  hit  it,"  answered  Reynal. 

"  Go  and  bring  in  the  animals,  Raymond,"  said  I ;  5 
"  we'll  camp  there  to-night,  and  start  for  the  fort 
in  the  morning." 

The  mare  and  the  mule  were  soon  before  the 
lodge.  We  saddled  them,  and  in  the  mean  time  a 
number  of  Indians  collected  about  us.  The  virtues  lo 
of  Pauline,  my  strong,  fleet,  and  hardy  little  mare, 
were  well  known  in  camp,  and  several  of  the  visitors 
were  mounted  upon  good  horses  which  they  had 
brought  me  as  presents.  I  promptly  declined  their 
offers,  since  accepting  them  would  have  involved  15 
the  necessity  of  transferring  Pauline  into  their  bar- 
barous hands.  We  took  leave  of  Reynal,  but  not  of 
the  Indians,  who  are  accustomed  to  dispense  with 
such  superfluous  ceremonies.  Leaving  the  camp, 
we  rode  straight  over  the  prairie  towards  the  white-  20 
faced  bluff,  whose  pale  ridges  swelled  gently  against 
the  horizon,  like  a  cloud.  An  Indian  went  with  us, 
whose  name  I  forget,  though  the  ugliness  of  his  face 
and  the  ghastly  width  of  his  mouth  dwell  vividly  in 
my  recollection.  The  antelope  were  numerous,  but  25 
we  did  not  heed  them.  We  rode  directly  towards 
our  destination,  over  the  arid  plains  and  barren 
hills;  until,  late  in  the  afternoon,  half  spent  with 
heat,  thirst,  and  fatigue,  we  saw  a  gladdening  sight: 
the  long  line  of  trees  and  the  deep  gulf  that  mark  30 
the  course  of  Laramie  Creek.  Passing  through 
the  growth  of  huge  dilapidated  old  cotton-wood 
trees  that  bordered  the  creek,  we  rode  across  to  the 
other  side.     The  rapid  and  foaming  waters  were 


PASSAGE   OF    THE  MOUNTAINS.  69 

filled  with  fish  playing  and  splashing  in  the  shal- 
lows.    As  we  gained  the  farther  bank,  our  horses 
turned  eagerly  to  drink,  and  we,  kneeling  on  the 
sand,  followed  their  example.     We  had  not  gone 
S  far  before  the  scene  began  to  grow  familiar, 
"  We  are  getting  near  home,  Raymond,"  said  I. 
iThere  stood  the  big  tree  under  which  we  had  en- 
camped so  long;  there  were  the  white  clififs  that 
used  to  look  down  upon  our  tent  when  it  stood  at 

10 the  bend  of  the  creek:  there  was  the  meadow  in 
which  our  horses  had  grazed  for  weeks,  and  a  little 
farther  on,  the  prairie-dog  village  where  I  had  be- 
guiled many  a  languid  hour  in  shooting  the  unfor- 
tunate inhabitants. 

15  "  We  are  going  to  catch  it  now,"  said  Raymond, 
turning  his  broad  face  up  towards  the  sky. 

In  truth  the  cliffs  and  the  meadow,  the  stream  and 
the  groves,  were  darkening  fast.  Black  masses  of 
cloud  were  swelling  up  in  the  south,  and  the  thun- 

2oder  was  growling  ominously. 

"  We  will  'camp  there,"  I  said,  pointing  to  a  dense 
grove  of  trees  lower  down  the  stream.  Raymond 
and  I  turned  towards  it,  but  the  Indian  stopped  and 
called  earnestly  after  us.     When  we  demanded  what 

25  was  the  matter,  he  said,  that  the  ghosts  of  two  war- 
riors were  always  among  those  trees,  and  that  if  we 
slept  there,  they  would  scream  and  throw  stones  at 
us  all  night,  and  perhaps  steal  our  horses  before 
morning.     Thinking  it  as  well  to  humor  him,  we 

30  left  behind  us  the  haunt  of  these  extraordinary 
ghosts,  and  passed  on  towards  Chugwater,  riding  at 
full  gallop,  for  the  big  drops  began  to  patter  down. 
Soon  we  came  in  sight  of  the  poplar  saplings  that 
grew  about  the  mouth  of  the  little  stream.     We 


7©  NARRA  TION. 

leaped  to  the  ground,  threw  off  our  saddles,  turned 
our  horses  loose,  and  drawing  our  knives  began  to 
slash  among  the  bushes  to  cut  twigs  and  branches 
for  making  a  shelter  against  the  rain.  Bending 
down  the  taller  saplings  as  they  grew,  we  piled  the  5 
young  shoots  upon  them,  and  thus  made  a  conven- 
ient pent-house;  but  our  labor  was  needless.  The 
storm  scarcely  touched  us.  Half  a  mile  on  our 
right  the  rain  was  pouring  down  like  a  cataract,  and 
the  thunder  roared  over  the  prairie  like  a  battery  of  10 
cannon;  while  we  by  good  fortune  received  only  a 
few  heavy  drops  from  the  skirt  of  the  passing  cloud. 
The  weather  cleared  and  the  sun  set  gloriously. 
Sitting  close  under  our  leafy  canopy,  we  proceeded 
to  discuss  a  substantial  meal  of  wasna  which  Weah-  15 
Washtay  had  given  me.  The  Indian  had  brought 
with  him  his  pipe  and  a  bag  of  shongsasha;  so  before 
lying  down  to  sleep,  we  sat  for  some  time  smoking 
together.  First,  however,  our  wide-mouthed  friend 
had  taken  the  precaution  of  carefully  examining  the  20 
neighborhood.  He  reported  that  eight  men,  count- 
ing them  on  his  fingers,  had  been  encamped  there 
not  long  before, — Bisonette,  Paul  Dorion,  Antoine 
Le  Rouge,  Richardson,  and  four  others,  whose 
names  he  could  not  tell.  All  this  proved  strictly  25 
correct.  By  what  instinct  he  had  arrived  at  such 
accurate  conclusions,  I  am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  di- 
vine. 

It  was  still  quite  dark  when  I  awoke  and  called 
Raymond.  The  Indian  was  already  gone,  having  30 
chosen  to  go  on  before  us  to  the  fort.  Setting  out 
after  him,  we  rode  for  some  time  in  complete  dark- 
ness, and  when  the  sun  at  length  rose,  glowing  like 
a  fiery  ball  of  copper,  we  were  within  ten  miles  of 


PASSAGE   OF   THE  MOUNTAINS.  7» 

the  fort.  At  length,  from  the  summit  of  a  sandy 
bluff  we  could  see  Fort  Laramie,  miles  before  us, 
standing  by  the  side  of  the  stream  Hke  a  little  gray 
speck,  in  the  midst  of  the  boundless  desolation.  I 
5  stopped  my  horse,  and  sat  for  a  moment  looking 
down  upon  it.  It  seemed  to  me  the  very  center  of 
comfort  and  civilization.  We  were  not  long  in  ap- 
proaching it,  for  we  rode  at  speed  the  greater  part  of 
the  way.     Laramie  Creek  still  intervened  between 

lo  us  and  the  friendly  walls.  Entering  the  water  at  the 
point  where  we  had  struck  upon  the  bank,  we  raised 
our  feet  to  the  saddle  behind  us,  and  thus  kneeling 
as  it  were  on  horseback,  passed  dry-shod  through 
the  swift  current.     As  we  rode  up  the  bank,  a  num- 

isber  of  men  appeared  in  the  gateway.  Three  of 
them  came  forward  to  meet  us.  In  a  moment  I  dis- 
tinguished Shaw;  Henry  Chatillon  followed,  with 
his  face  of  m.anly  simplicity  and  frankness,  and  Des- 
lauriers  came  last,  with  a  broad  grin  of  welcome. 

20  The  meeting  was  not  on  either  side  one  of  mere 
ceremony.  For  my  own  part,  the  change  was  a 
most  agreeable  one,  from  the  society  of  savages  and 
men  little  better  than  savages,  to  that  of  my  gallant 
and  high-minded  companion,  and  our  noble-hearted 

25  guide.  My  appearance  was  equally  welcome  to 
Shaw,  who  was  beginning  to  entertain  some  very 
uncomfortable  surmises  concerning  me. 

Bordeaux  greeted  me  cordially,  and  shouted  to 
the  cook.     This  functionary  was  a  new  acquisition, 

30  having  lately  come  from  Fort  Pierre  with  the  trad- 
ing wagons.  Whatever  skill  he  might  have 
boasted,  he  had  not  the  most  promising  materials 
to  exercise  it  upon.  He  set  before  me,  however,  a 
breakfast    of    biscuit,    coffee,    and    salt    pork.     It 


yd  NARRA  TION. 

seemed  like  a  new  phase  of  existence,  to  be  seated 
once  more  on  a  bench,  with  a  knife  and  fork,  a 
plate  and  teacup,  and  something  resembling  a  table 
before  me.  The  coffee  seemed  delicious,  and  the 
bread  was  a  most  welcome  novelty,  since  for  three  5 
weeks  I  had  tasted  scarcely  anything  but  meat,  and 
that  for  the  most  part  without  salt.  The  meal  also 
had  the  relish  of  good  company,  for  opposite  to  me 
sat  Shaw  in  elegant  dishabille.  If  one  is  anxious 
thoroughly  to  appreciate  the  value  of  a  congenial  10 
companion,  he  has  only  to  spend  a  few  weeks  by 
himself  in  an  Ogillallah  village.  And  if  he  can  con- 
trive to  add  to  his  seclusion,  a  debilitating  and 
somewhat  critical  illness,  his  perceptions  upon  this 
subject  will  be  rendered  considerably  more  vivid.      15 

Shaw  had  been  two  or  three  weeks  at  the  fort.  I 
found  him  established  in  his  old  quarters,  a  large 
apartment  usually  occupied  by  the  absent  bourgeois. 
In  one  corner  was  a  soft  pile  of  excellent  buffalo- 
robes,  and  here  I  lay  down.  'Shaw  brought  me  20 
three  books. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  "  is  your  Shakspeare  and  Byron, 
and  here  is  the  Old  Testament,  which  has  as  much 
poetry  in  it  as  the  other  two  put  together." 

I  chose  the  worst  of  the  three,  and  for  the  greater  25 
part  of  that  day  I  lay  on  the  buffalo-robes,  fairly  rev- 
eling in  the  creations  of  that  resplendent  genius 
which  has  achieved  no  more  signal  triumph  than 
that  of  half  beguiling  us  to  forget  the  unmanly  char- 
acter of  its  possessor.  30 

Notes. — We  have  seen  in  the  previous  chapter  that  the 
purpose  of  narration  is  often  descriptive.  Wlien  the  length 
of  a  piece  of  narrative  is  considerable  and  there  are 
frequent  sections  of  description,  it  is  difficult  to  classify 


THE   CAPTURE   OF  A    TROUT.  73 

the  whole.  Nor  is  such  classification  important  if  the 
presence  of  both  types  of  writing  is  really  warranted. 
The  cases  in  which  descriptive  passages  of  some  length 
may  be  considered  as  appropriate  in  a  narration  are,  how- 
5  ever,  comparatively  rare.  Young  writers  frequently  fail  to 
/'  note  this  fact,  and  impair  the  interest  of  their  story  by 
straying  aside  into  irrelevant  "  word-painting."  They  fail 
to  see  the  significance  of  Stevenson's  conviction  that  no 
human  being  ever  talked  about  scenery  for  more  than  two 

lo  minutes  at  one  time.  The  chapter  from  Parkman  shows 
how  great  must  be  the  skill  which  blends  the  two  distinct 
interests,  and  it  shows  the  circumstances  under  which  the 
attempt  to  do  so  may  be  made.  The  purpose  of  Parkman's 
history  was  two-fold  :  to  narrate  the  events  of  his  journey 

15  and  to  report  the  condition  of  the  country  through  which 
he  passed.  His  story  has  an  objective  point,  namely 
"  Fort  Laramie  "  ;  but  it  lacks  plot  suspense,  because  the 
reader  is  drawn  into  the  historian's  open-eyed  interest  in 
the  episodes  of  the   way,  and  comes    to  regard  these  as 

20  more  important  than  the  question  of  winning  through 
heat  and  fatigue  to  the  end  of  the  march.  The  selection 
owes  its  vividness  to  the  fact  of  its  recording  the  observa- 
tions of  an  eyewitness.  It  owes  much  of  its  charm  to  the 
personal    form  ;   Parkman's   very  human   personality   is 

25  infused  through  it  all. 

21—Z\iz  Capture  of  a  ^rout, 

R.    D.    BLACKMORE. 

The  trout  knew  nothing-  of  all  this.  They  had 
not  tasted  a  worm  for  a  month,  except  when  a  sod 
of  the  bank  fell  in,  through  cracks  of  the  sun,  and 
the  way  cold  water  has  of  licking  upward.  And 
30 even  the  flies  had  no  favor  at  all;  when  they  fell  on 
the  water,  they  fell  flat,  and  on  the  palate  they  tasted 
hot,  even  under  the  bushes. 


74  NARRA  TION. 

Hilary  followed  a  path  through  the  meadows, 
with  the  calm  bright  sunset  casting  his  shadow  over 
the  shorn  grass,  or  up  in  the  hedge-road,  or  on  the 
brown  banks  where  the  drought  had  struck.  On 
his  back  he  carried  a  fishing-basket,  containing  his  5 
bits  of  refreshment;  and  in  his  right  hand  a  short 
springy  rod,  the  absent  sailor's  favorite.  After  long 
council  with  Mabel,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
walk  up  stream,  as  far  as  the  spot  where  two  brooks 
met,  and  formed  body  enough  for  a  fly  flipped  in  10 
very  carefully  to  sail  downward.  Here  he  began, 
and  the  creak  of  his  reel  and  the  swish  of  his  rod 
were  music  to  him,  after  the  whirl  of  London  life. 

The  brook  was  as  bright  as  the  best  cut-glass,  and 
the  twinkles  of  its  shifting  facets  only  made  it  seem  15 
more  clear.  It  twisted  about  a  little,  here  and  there; 
and  the  brink  was  fringed  now  and  then  with  some- 
thing, a  clump  of  loose-strife,  a  tuft  of  avens,  or  a 
bed  of  flowering  water-cress,  or  any  other  of  the 
many  plants  that  wash  and  look  into  the  water.  20 
But  the  trout,  the  main  object  in  view,  were  most 
objectionably  too  much  in  view.  They  scudded  up 
the  brook  at  the  shadow  of  a  hair,  or  even  the  trem- 
ble of  a  blade  of  grass;  and  no  pacific  assurance 
could  make  them  even  stop  to  be  reasoned  with.  25 
"  This  won't  do,"  said  Hilary,  who  very  often  talki  d 
to  himself,  in  lack  of  a  better  comrade;  "  I  call  this 
very  hard  upon  me.  The  beggars  won't  rise  till  it 
is  quite  dark.  I  must  have  the  interdict  ofif  my  to- 
bacco, if  this  sort  of  thing  is  to  go  on.  How  1 30 
should  enjoy  a  pipe  just  now!  I  may  just  as  well 
sit  on  a  gate  and  think.  No,  hang  it,  I  hate  think- 
ing now.  There  are  troubles  hanging  over  me,  as 
sure  as  the  tail  of  that  comet  grows.     How  I  de- 


THE   CAPTURE   OF  A    TROUT.  75 

test  that  comet!  No  wonder  the  fish  won't  rise. 
But  if  I  have  to  strip  and  tickle  them  in  the  dark,  I 
won't  go  back  without  some  for  her." 

He  was  lucky  enough  to  escape  the  weight  of  such 

5  horrible  poaching  upon  his  conscience ;  for  suddenly 

to  his  ears  was  borne  the  most  melodious  of  all 

sounds,  the  flop  of  a  heavy  fish  sweetly  jumping 

after  some  excellent  fly  or  grub. 

"  Ha,  my  friend!  "  cried  Hilary,  "  so  you  are  up 

lofor  your  supper,  are  you?  I  myself  will  awake 
right  early.  Still  I  behold  the  ring  you  made.  If 
my  right  hand  forget  not  its  cunning,  you  shall  form 
your  next  ring  in  the  frying-pan." 

He  gave  that  fish  a  little  time  to  think  of  the 

15  beauty  of  that  mouthful,  and  get  ready  for  another; 
the  while  he  was  putting  a  white  moth  on,  in  lieu 
of  his  blue  upright.  He  kept  the  grizzled  palmer 
still  for  tail-fly,  and  he  tried  his  knots,  for  he  knew 
that  this  trout  was  a  Triton. 

20  Then,  with  a  delicate  sidling  and  stooping,  known 
only  to  them  that  fish  for  trout  in  very  bright  water 
of  the  summer-time — compared  with  which  art  the 
coarse  work  of  the  salmon-fisher  is  as  that  of  a 
scene-painter  to  Mr.  Holman  Hunt's — with,  or  in, 

25  and  by  a  careful  manner,  not  to  be  described  to 
those  who  have  never  studied  it,  Hilary  won  access 
to  the  water,  without  any  doubt  in  the  mind  of  the 
fish  concerning  the  prudence  of  appetite.  Then  he 
flipped  his  short  collar  in,  not  with  a  cast,  but  a 

30  spring  of  the  rod,  and  let  his  flies  go  quietly  down 
a  sharpish  run  into  that  good  trout's  hole.  The 
worthy  trout  looked  at  them  both,  and  thought; 
for  he  had  his  own  favorite  spot  for  watching  the 
v/orld  go  by,  as  the  rest  of  us  have.     So  he  let  the 


76  NARRATION. 

grizzled  palmer  pass,  within  an  inch  of  his  upper 
lip;  for  it  struck  him  that  the  tail  turned  up  in  a 
manner  not  wholly  natural,  or  at  any  rate  unwhole- 
some. He  looked  at  the  white  moth  also,  and 
thought  that  he  had  never  seen  one  at  all  like  it.  5 
So  he  went  down  under  his  root  again,  hugging 
himself  upon  his  wisdom,  never  moving  a  fin,  but 
oaring  and  helming  his  plump,  spotted  sides  with 
his  tail. 

"  Upon  my  word,  it  is  too  bad!  "  said  Hilary,  after  10 
three  beautiful  throws,  and  exquisite  management 
down  stream:  "everything  Kentish  beats  me  hol- 
low. Now,  if  that  had  been  one  of  our  trout,  I 
would  have  laid  my  life  upon  catching  him.'  One 
more  throw,  however.  How  would  it  be  if  I  sunk  15 
my  flies?    That  fellow  is  worth  some  patience." 

While  he  was  speaking,  his  flies  alit  on  the  glassy 
ripple,  like  gnats  in  their  love-dance;  and  then  by  a 
turn  of  the  wrist,  he  played  them  just  below  the  sur- 
face, and  let  them  go  gliding  down  the  stickle,  into  20 
the  shelfy  nook  of  shadow,  where  the  big  trout  hov- 
ered. Under  the  surface,  floating  thus,  with  the 
check  of  ductile  influence,  the  two  flies  spread  their 
wings  and  quivered,  like  a  centiplume  moth  in  a 
spider's  web.  Still  the  old  trout,  calmly  oaring,  25 
looked  at  them  both  suspiciously.  Why  should  the 
same  flies  come  so  often,  and  why  should  they  have 
such  crooked  tails,  and  could  he  be  sure  that  he  did 
not  spy  the  shadow  of  a  human  hat  about  twelve 
yards  up  the  water?  Revolving  these  things  he  30 
might  have  lived  to  a  venerable  age — but  for  that 
noble  ambition  to  teach,  which  is  fatal  to  even  the 
wisest.  A  young  fish,  an  insolent  whipper-snapper, 
jumped  in  his  babyish  way  at  the  palmer,  and  missed 


THE   CAPTURE   OF  A    TROUT.  77 

it  through  overeagerness.  "  I'll  show  you  the  way 
to  catch  a  fly,"  said  the  big  trout  to  him;  "open 
your  mouth  like  this,  my  son," 

With  that  he  bolted  the  palmer,  and  threw  up  his 

5  tail,  and  turned  to  go  home  again.     Alas!  his  sweet 

home  now  shall  know  him  no  more.     For  suddenly 

'      he  was  surprised  by  a  most  disagreeable  sense  of 

grittiness,  and  then  a  keen  stab  in  the  roof  of  his 

mouth.     He  jumped,  in  his  wrath,  a  foot  out  of  the 

lo  water,  and  then  heavily  plunged  to  the  depths  of  his 

hole. 

"  You've  got  it,  my  friend,"  cried  Hilary,  in  a 
tingle  of  fine  emotions;  "  I  hope  the  sailor's  knots 
are  tied  with  professional  skill  and  care.  You  are  a 
15  big  one,  and  a  clever  one  too.  It  is  much  if  I  ever 
land  you.  No  net,  or  gaff,  or  anything.  I  only 
hope  that  there  are  no  stakes  here.  Ah,  there  you 
go!     Now  comes  the  tug." 

Away  went  the  big  trout  down  the  stream,  at  a 
20  pace  very  hard  to  exaggerate,  and  after  him  rushed 
Hilary,  knowing  that  his  line  was  rather  short,  and 
that  if  it  ran  out,  all  was  over.  Keeping  his  eyes 
on  the  water  only,  and  the  headlong  speed  of  the 
fugitive,  headlong  over  a  stake  he  fell,  and  took  a 
25  deep  wound  from  another  stake.  Scarcely  feeling 
it,  up  he  jumped,  lifting  his  rod,  which  had  fallen 
flat,  and  fearing  to  find  no  strain  on  it.  "  Aha,  he 
is  not  gone  yet!  "  he  cried,  as  the  rod  bowed  like  a 
springle-bow. 
30  He  was  now  a  good  hundred  yards  down  the 
brook  from  the  corner  where  the  fight  began. 
Through  his  swiftness  of  foot,  and  good  manage- 
ment, the  fish  had  never  been  able  to  tighten  the 
line  beyond  yield   of  endurance.     The  bank   had 


78  NARRA  TION. 

been  free  from  bushes,  or  haply  no  skill  could  have 
saved  him;  but  now  they  were  come  to  a  corner 
where  a  nut-bush  quite  overhung  the  stream. 

"  I  am  done  for  now,"  said  the  fisherman;  "the 
villain  knows  too  well  what  he  is  about.     Here  ends  5 
this  adventure." 

Full  though  he  was  of  despair,  he  jumped  any- 
how into  the  water,  kept  the  point  of  his  rod  close 
down,  reeled  up  a  little,  as  the  fish  felt  weaker,  and 
just  cleared  the  drop  of  the  hazel  boughs.  The  lo 
water  flapped  into  the  pockets  of  his  coat,  and  he 
saw  red  streaks  flow  downward.  And  then  he 
plunged  out  to  an  open  reach  of  shallow  water  and 
gravel  slope. 

"  I  ought  to  have  you  now,"  he  said;  "  though  no-  ^5 
body  knows  what  a  rogue  you  are;  and  a  pretty 
dance  you  have  led  me!  " 

Doubting  the  strength  of  his  tackle  to  lift  even 
the  dead  weight  of  the  fish,  and  much  more  to  meet 
his  despairing  rally,  he  happily  saw  a  little  shallow  20 
gut,  or  backwater,  where  a  small  spring  ran  out. 
Into  this  by  a  dexterous  turn  he  rather  led  than 
pulled  the  fish,  who  was  ready  to  rest  for  a  minute 
or  two;  then  he  stuck  his  rod  into  the  bank,  ran 
down  stream,  and  with  his  hat  in  both  hands  25 
appeared  at  the  only  exit  from  the  gut.  It  was  all 
up  now  with  the  monarch  of  the  brook.  As  he 
skipped  and  jumped,  with  his  rich  yellow  belly,  and 
chaste  silver  sides,  in  the  green  of  the  grass,  joy  and 
glory  of  the  highest  merit,  and  gratitude,  glowed  in  30 
the  heart  of  Lorraine.  "  Two  and  three-quarters 
you  must  weigh.  And  at  your  very  best  you  are! 
How  small  your  head  is!  And  how  bright  your 
spots  are! "  he  cried,  as  he  gave  him  the  stroke  of 


THE   CAPTURE   OF  A    TROUT.  79 

grace.     "  You  really  have  been  a  brave  and  fine  fel- 
low.    I  hope  they  will  know  how  to  fry  you." 

While  he  cut  his  fly  out  of  this  grand  trout's 
mouth,  he  felt  for  the  first  time  a  pain  in  his  knee, 
5  where  the  point  of  the  stake  had  entered  it.  Un- 
der the  buckle  of  his  breeches  blood  was  soaking 
away  inside  his  gaiters;  and  then  he  saw  hov/  he  had 
dyed  the  water. 

— Alice  Lorraine. 

Notes. — In  the  present  selection,  as  in  the  preceding, 

lo  there  is  a  good  amount  of  description,  but  here  it  is  vigor- 
ously subordinated  to  the  narrative.  We  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  time  of  day  from  the  "  calm  bright  sunset,"  but  that 
is  essential  to  the  story  ;  so  too  are  the  seven  lines  that 
describe  the  brook  where  the  fishing  is  to  be  done.     These 

15  given,  the  author  introduces  the  trout  which  is  to  hold  our 
interest,  and  from  this  moment  until  the  fish  is  landed 
never  allows  the  reader's  attention  to  stray  from  it.  There 
are  moments  when  the  trout  is  apparently  inactive,  and 
when,  therefore,  the  movement  of  the  narrative  seems  to 

20  flag,  but  the  fish  or  its  lurking  place  is  steadily  kept  in  view 
by  the  reader  as  by  the  fisherman.  In  other  words,  there 
are  no  digressions.  The  action  is  one  and  indivisible,  as 
every  writer  on  rhetoric,  from  Aristotle  down,  has  insisted 
that  an  action  should  be.     What  is  known  as  plot  interest 

25  depends  largely  upon  the  unity  of  the  action.  The 
intrinsic  interest  of  the  outcome,  the  denouement,  may  be 
small,  but  if  the  outcome  is  led  up  to  steadily  there  will 
be  a  certain  suspense  till  it  is  reached.  A  narrative  that 
lacks  suspense  lacks  it  usually  from  one  of  two  reasons  : 

30  either  from  the  intentional  multiplicity  of  incidents,  as 
appears  in  the  passage  by  Parkman,  or  from  uninten- 
tional digressions. 

The  style  of  the  Blackmore  passage  is  noticeably  con- 
crete.     Concreteness,   the     presence     of    vivid     mental 

35  imagery,  is  the  best  quality  that  narration    derives  from 


So  NARRA  TION. 

description.  The  concrete  terms  of  narration  are  often 
more  compressed  than  those  of  description.  In  narra- 
tion the  descriptive  adverb  and  particularly  the  descriptive 
verb  are  powerful  instruments.  The  trout  are  "  objection- 
ably too  much  in  view  ";  the  big  one  will  "  form  his  next  5 
ring  in  the  frying-pan";  he  "oars  and  helms  his  plump, 
spotted  sides  with  his  tail";  he  "heavily  plunges  to  the 
depths  of  his  hole." 

28.— Bn  JEvenins  at  tbe  tCbeater. 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

We  took  possession  of  the  private  box  assigned 
to  us:  and  Mrs.  Flather  seated  herself  in  the  place lo 
of  honor — each  of  the  young  ladies  taking  it  by 
turns  to  occupy  the  other  corner.     Miss  Minny  and 
Master  Jones  occupied  the  middle  places;  and  it 
was    pleasant    to    watch    the    young    gentleman 
throughout  the  performance  of  the  comedy — during  15 
which  he  was  never  quiet  for  two  minutes — now 
shifting  his  chair,  now  swinging  to  and  fro  upon  it, 
now  digging  his  elbows  into  the  capacious  sides  of 
Mrs.  Captain  Flather,  now  beating  with  his  boots 
against  the  front  of  the  box,  or  trampling  upon  the  20 
skirts  of  Mrs.  Flather's  satin  garment. 

He  occupied  himself  unceasingly,  too,  in  working 
up  and  down  Mrs.  F.'s  double-barreled  French 
opera-glass — not  a  little  to  the  detriment  of  that  in- 
strument and  the  wrath  of  the  owner;  indeed,  1 25 
have  no  doubt,  that  had  not  Mrs.  Flather  reflected 
that  Mrs.  Colonel  Jones  gave  some  of  the  most  ele- 
gant parties  in  London,  to  which  she  was  very  anx- 
ious to  be  invited,  she  would  have  boxed  Master 
Augustus's  ears  in  the  presence  of  the  whole  audi- 30 
ence  of  Covent  Garden. 


AN  EVENING  AT    THE    THEATER.  8 1 

One  of  the  young  ladies  was,  of  course,  obliged  to 
remain  in  the  back  row  with  Mr.  Spec.  We  could 
not  see  much  of  the  play  over  Mrs.  F.'s  turban ;  but 
I  trust  that  we  were  not  unhappy  in  our  retired  po- 
5  sition.  O  Miss  Emily!  O  Miss  Louisa!  there  is 
one  who  would  be  happy  to  sit  for  a  week  close  by 
either  of  you,  though  it  were  on  one  of  those  abom- 
inable little  private-box  chairs.  I  know,  for  my 
part,  that  every  time  the  box-keeperess  popped  in 

loher  head,  and  asked  if  we  would  take  any  refresh- 
ment, I  thought  the  interruption  odious. 

Our  young  ladies,  and  their  stout  chaperon  and 
aunt,  had  come  provided  with  neat  little  bouquets 
of  flowers,  in  which  they  evidently  took  a  considera- 

isble  pride,  and  which  were  laid,  on  their  first  en- 
trance, on  the  ledge  in  front  of  our  box. 

But,  presently,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  house, 
Mrs.  Cutbush,  of  Pocklington  Gardens,  appeared 
with  her  daughters,  and  bowed  in  a  patronizing 

20  manner  to  the  ladies  of  our  party,  with  whom  the 
Cutbush  family  had  a  slight  acquaintance. 

Before  ten  minutes,  the  oouquets  of  our  party 
were  whisked  away  from  the  ledge  of  the  box. 
Mrs.  Flather  dropped  hers  to  the  ground,  where 

25  Master  Jones's  feet  speedily  finished  it;  Miss 
Louisa  Twigg  let  hers  fall  into  her  lap,  and  covered 
it  with  her  pocket-handkerchief.  Uneasy  signals 
passed  between  her  and  her  sister.  I  could  not,  at 
first,  understand  what  event  had  occurred  to  make 

30  these  ladies  so  vinhappy. 

At  last  the  secret  came  out.  The  Misses  Cut- 
bush had  bouquets  like  little  haystacks  before  them. 
Our  small  nosegays  which  had  quite  satisfied  the 
girls  until  now,  had  become  odious  in  their  little 


82  NARRA  TION. 

jealous  eyes;  and  the  Cutbushes  triumphed  over 
them. 

I  have  joked  the  ladies  subsequently  on  this  ad- 
venture; but  not  one  of  them  will  acknowledge  the 
charge  against  them.  It  was  mere  accident  that  ?■ 
made  them  drop  the  flowers — pure  accident.  They 
jealous  of  the  Catbushes — not  they,  indeed;  and,  of 
course,  each  person  on  this  head  is  welcome  to  his 
own  opinion. 

How  different,  meanwhile,  was  the  behavior  ofio 
my  young  friend  Master  Jones,  who  is  not  as  yet 
sophisticated  by  the  world.     He  not  only  nodded 
to  his  father's  servant,  who  had  taken  a  place  in  the 
pit,  and  was  to  escort  his  young  master  home,  but 
he  discovered  a  school-fellow  in  the  pit  likewise.  15 
"  By  Jove,  there's  Smith,"  he  cried  out,  as  if  the 
sight  of  Smith  was  the  most  extraordinary  event  in 
the  world.     He  pointed  out  Smith  to  all  of  us.     He 
never    ceased    nodding,    winking,    grinning,    tele- 
graphing,   until    he    had    succeeded    in    attracting  20 
the  attention  not  only  of  Master  Smith,  but  of  the 
greater  part  of  the  house;  and  whenever  anything 
in  the  play  struck  him  as  worthy  of  applause,  he  in- 
stantly made  signals  to  Smith  below,  and  shook  his 
fist  at  him,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  By  Jove,  old  fellow,  25 
ain't   it   good?     I    say.   Smith,   isn't   it  prime,   old 
boy?  "     He  actually  made  remarks  on  his  lingers 
to  Master  Smith  during  the  performance. 

I  confess  he  was  one  of  the  best  parts  of  the 
night's  entertainment  to  me.  How  Jones  and  30 
Smith  will  talk  about  that  play  when  they  meet 
after  holidays!  And  not  only  then  will  they  re- 
member it,  but  all  their  lives  long.  Why  do  you 
remember  that  play  you  saw  thirty  years  ago,  and 


AN  EVENING  AT  THE   THEATER.  83 

forget  the  one  over  which  you  yawned  last  week? 
"  Ah,  my  brave  Httle  boy,"  I  thought  in  my  heart, 
"  twenty  years  hence  you  will  recollect  this,  and 
have  forgotten  many  a  better  thing.     You  will  have 

s  been  in  love  twice  or  thrice  by  that  time,  and  have 
forgotten  it;  you  will  have  buried  your  wife  and 
forgotten  her;  you  will  have  had  ever  so  many 
friendships  and  forgotten  them.  You  and  Smith 
won't  care  for  each  other,  very  probably;  but  you'll 

10  remember  all  the  actors  and  the  plot  of  this  piece  we 
are  seeing." 

I  protest  I  have  forgotten  it  myself.  In  our  back 
row  we  could  not  see  or  hear  much  of  the  perform- 
ance (and  no  great  loss) — fitful  bursts  of  elocution 

15  only  occasionally  reaching  us,  in  which  we  could 
recognize  the  well-known  nasal  twang  of  the  excel- 
lent Mr.  Stupor,  who  performed  the  part  of  the 
young  hero;  or  the  ringing  laughter  of  Mrs.  Bel- 
more,  who  had  to  giggle  through  the  whole  piece, 

20  It  was  one  of  Mr.  Boyster's  comedies  of  English 
Life.  Frank  Nightrake  (Stupor)  and  his  friend 
Bob  Fitzoffley  appeared  in  the  first  scene,  having  a 
conversation  with  that  impossible  valet  of  English 
Comedy,  whom  any  gentleman  would  turn  out  of 

25  doors  before  he  could  get  through  half  a  length  of 
the  dialogue  assigned.  I  caught  only  a  glimpse  of 
this  act.  Bob,  like  a  fashionable  young  dog  of  the 
aristocracy  (the  character  was  played  by  Bulwer,  a 
meritorious  man,  but  very  stout,  and  nearly  fifty 

30  years  of  age),  was  dressed  in  a  rhubarb-colored 
body-coat  with  brass  buttons,  a  couple  of  under- 
waistcoats,  a  blue  satin  stock  with  a  paste  brooch  in 
it,  and  an  eighteenpenny  cane,  which  he  never  let 
out  of  his  hand,  and  with  which  he  poked  fun  at 


84  NARRA  TION. 

everybody.  Frank  Nightrake,  on  the  contrary,  be- 
ing at  home,  was  attired  in  a  very  close-fitting  chintz 
dressing  gown,  lined  with  glazed  red  calico,  and  was 
seated  before  a  large  pewter  teapot,  at  breakfast. 
And,  as  your  true  English  Comedy  is  the  repre-  5 
sentation  of  nature,  I  could  not  but  think  how  like 
these  figures  on  the  stage,  and  the  dialogue  which 
they  used,  were  to  the  appearance  and  talk  of  Eng- 
lish gentlemen  of  the  present  day. 

The  dialogue  went  on  somewhat  in  the  following  10 
fashion : — 

Boh  FitzofHey  {enters  zvhistling). — "  The  top  of  the 
morning  to  thee,  Frank!  What!  at  breakfast  al- 
ready? At  chocolate  and  the  Morning  Post,  like  a 
dowager  of  sixty?  Slang!  (he  pokes  the  servant  is 
zuith  his  cane)  what  has  come  to  thy  master,  thou 
Prince  of  Valets!  thou  pattern  of  Slaveys!  thou 
swiftest  of  Mercuries!  Has  the  Honorable  Francis 
Nightrake  lost  his  heart,  or  his  head,  or  his 
health?"  20 

Frank  (laying  down  the  paper). — "  Bob,   Bob,   I 
have  lost  all  three!     I  have  lost  my  health.  Bob, 
with  thee  and  thy  like,  over  the  Burgundy  at  the 
club;  I  have  lost  my  head.  Bob,  with  thinking  how 
I  shall  pay  my  debts;  and  I  have  lost  my  heart- 25 
Bob,  oh,  to  such  a  creature!  " 
Bob. — "A  Venus  of  course?" 
Slang. — "  With  the  presence  of  Juno." 
Bob. — "  And  the  modesty  of  Minerva." 
Frank. — "  And  the  coldness  of  Diana."  30 

Bob. — "  Pish !     What  a  sigh  is  that  about  a  wo- 
man!    Thou  shalt  be  Endymion,  the  nightrake  of 
old:  and  conquer  this  shy  goddess.     Hey,  Slang?" 
Herewith  Slang  takes  the  lead  of  the  conversa- 


AN  EVENING  AT    THE    THEATER.  85 

tion,  and  propounds  a  plot  for  running  away  with 
the  heiress;  and  I  could  not  help  remarking  how 
like  the  comedy  was  to  life — how  the  gentlemen  al- 
ways say  "  thou  "  and  "  prythee,"  and  "  go  to,"  and 
Stalk  about  heathen  goddesses  to  each  other;  how 
their  servants  are  always  their  particular  intimates; 
how  when  there  is  serious  love-making  between  a 
gentleman  and  lady,  a  comic  attachment  invariably 
springs  up  between  the  valet  and  waiting-maid  of 

10 each;  how  Lady  Grace  Gadabout,  when  she  calls 
upon  Rose  Ringdove  to  pay  a  morning  visit,  ap- 
pears in  a  low  satin  dress,  with  jewels  in  her  hair; 
how  Saucebox,  her  attendant,  wears  diamond 
brooches,  and  rings  on  all  her  fingers:  while  Mrs. 

15  Tallyho,  on  the  other  hand,  transacts  all  the  busi- 
ness of  life  in  a  riding-habit,  and  always  points  her 
jokes  by  a  cut  of  the  whip. 

This  playfulness  produced  a  roar  all  over  the 
house,  whenever  it  was  repeated,  and  always  made 

aoour  little  friends  clap  their  hands  and  shout  in  a 
chorus. 

Like  that  bon-vivant  who  envied  the  beggars 
staring  into  the  cook-shop  windows,  and  wished  he 
could  be  hungry,  I  envied  the  boys,  and  wished  I 

25  could  laugh,  very  much.  In  the  last  act,  I  remem- 
ber— for  it  is  now  very  nearly  a  week  ago — every- 
body took  refuge  either  in  a  secret  door,  or  behind  a 
screen,  or  curtain,  or  under  a  table,  or  up  a  chim- 
ney: and  the  house  roared  as  each  person  came  out 

30  from  his  place  of  concealment.     And  the  old  fellow 

in  top-boots,  joining  the  hands  of  the  young  couple 

(Fitzoffley,  of  course,  pairing  off  with  the  widow), 

gave  them  his  blessing,  and  thirty  thousand  pounds. 

And  ah,  ye  gods !  if  I  wished  before  that  comedies 


^  NARRA  TIOhK 

were  like  life,  how  I  wished  that  life  was  like  come- 
dies! Whereon  the  drop  fell;  and  Augustus,  clap- 
ping to  the  opera-glass,  jumped  up,  crying — 
"Hurray!  now  for  the  Pantomime." 

— Sketches  and  Travels  in  London. 

Notes. — Thackeray's    account   of    an    evening    at   the   5 
theater  is  personal,  and  has  a  fixed  point  of  view.     What 
happens    is    observed  by  a    definite    observer,    from    an 
unchanging  position.     This  method  is  very  effective  when 
the  action  is  a  unit  and  can  all  be  seen  from  the  given 
place.     Professor  A.  S.  Hill '  has  pointed  out  the  superior  10 
vividness  of  a  boat-race  seen  from  one  point,  toward  which 
it  proceeds,  as  compared  with   a    race    seen   alternately 
from  the  two  boats  themselves.     Still,  what  usually  passes 
before  a  fixed  point  is  not  a  dramatic  whole,  but  a  series  of 
episodes,   having  only   such    unity  as  the    place  or  the  15 
observer's  state  of  mind  may  supply.     Thus  Thackeray's 
evening  at  the  theater  has  unity  both  of  place  and  of  feel- 
ing, but  none  of  action.     He  notes  all  the  events  he  can 
from  his  back  seat  in  the  box,  and  they  are  all  welcomed 
by  his    mood,    which    demands    amusement.      A   similar  20 
method  maj'  be  seen  in  Chapter  HI.  of  Hawthorne's  "  House 
of  the  Seven  Gables,"  where  the  events  of  a  morning  in  a 
shop  are  viewed  from  behind  the  counter  by  the  tremulous 
gentlewoman  to  whom  this  point  of  view  is  strange. 


29.— B  IRcscue. 

R.    D.    BLACKMORE. 

Before  they  could  say  a  word,  or  look  round,  they  25 
not  only  heard  but  saw  a  boy  riding  and  raving 
furiously,  on  the  other  side  of  the  water.     He  was 
coming  down  the  course  of  the  stream  toward  them 

'  "  Principles  of  Rhetoric,"  rev.  ed.,  p.  290  fif. 


A  RESCUE.  87 

as  fast  as  his  donkey  could  flounder,  and  slide,  and 
tear  along  over  the  snow-drifts  And  at  the  top  of 
his  voice  he  was  shouting: 

**  A  swan,  a  swan,  a  girt  white  swan!     The  booti- 
sful  leddy  have  turned  into  a   girt   swan!     Oh,   I 
never! " 

"  Are  you  mad,  you  young  fool?  Just  get  back 
from  the  water!  "  cried  Gregory  Lovejoy  sternly; 
for  as  Bonny  pulled  up,  the  horses,  weary  as  they 

10  were,  jumped  round  in  affright  at  Jack's  white  nose 
and  great  ears  jerking  in  a  shady  place.  "  Get  back 
from  the  water,  or  we  shall  all  be  in  it!  "  For  the 
wheeler  having  caught  the  leader's  scare,  was  back- 
ing right  into  the  Woeburn,  and  Mabel  could  not 

15  help  a  little  scream;  till  the  sailor  sprung  cleverly 
over  the  wheel,  and  seized  the  shaft-horse  by  the 
head. 

"  There  she  cometh!  there  she  cometh!  "  shouted 
Bonny  all  the  while;  "  oh,  whatever  shall  I  do!  " 

20  "  I  see  it!  I  see  it!  "  cried  Mabel,  leaning  over  the 
rail  of  the  gig,  and  gazing  up  the  dark  stream  stead- 
fastly; "  oh,  what  can  it  be?  It  is  all  white.  And  it 
hangs  upon  the  water  so.  It  must  be  someone 
floating  drowned!  " 

25  Charlie,  the  sailor,  without  a  word,  ran  to  a  bulge 
of  the  bank,  as  he  saw  the  white  thing  coming 
nearer,  looked  at  it  for  an  instant  with  all  his  eyes, 
then  flung  ofif  his  coat  and  plunged  into  the  water, 
as  if  for  a  little  pleasant  swim.     He  had  no  idea  of 

30  the  power  of  the  current,  but  if  he  had  known  all 
about  it,  he  would  have  gone  headforemost  all  the 
same.  For  he  saw  in  mid-channel  the  form  of  a 
woman,  helpless,  senseless,  at  the  mercy  of  the 
water;  and  that  was  quite  enough  for  him. 


88  NARRA  TION. 

From  his  childhood  up  he  had  been  a  swimmer, 
and  was  quite  at  his  ease  in  rough  water,  and  there- 
fore despised  this  sHding  smoothness.  But  before 
he  had  taken  three  strokes  he  felt  that  he  had  mis- 
taken his  enemy.  Instead  of  swimming  up  the  5 
stream,  which  looked  very  easy  to  do  from  the  bank, 
he  could  not  even  hold  his  own  with  arms  and  legs 
against  it,  but  was  quietly  washed  down  by  the 
force  bearing  into  the  cups  of  his  shoulders.  But, 
in  spite  of  the  volume  of  torrent,  he  felt  as  comfort- 10 
able  as  could  be;  for  the  water  was  by  some  twenty 
degrees  warmer  than  the  frosty  air. 

"Cut  the  traces!"  he  managed  to  shout,  as  his 
brother  and  sister  hung  over  the  bank. 

"  What  does  he  mean?  "  asked  Gregory.  15 

"Take  my  little  knife,"  said  Mabel;  "  it  cuts  like 
a  razor;  but  my  hands  shake." 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  nodded  the  counselor,  and  he  cut 
the  long  traces  of  the  leader,  and  knotted  them  to- 
gether. Meanwhile  Charlie  let  both  feet  sink,  and  20 
stood  edgewise  in  the  rapid  current,  treading  water 
quietly.  Of  course  he  was  carried  down  stream  as 
he  did  it;  but  slowly  (compared  with  a  floating 
body).  And  he  found  that  the  movement  was  much 
less  rapid  at  three  or  fonjr  feet  from  the  surface.  25 
Before  he  had  time  to  think  of  this,  or  fairly  fetch 
his  balance,  the  white  thing  he  was  waiting  for  came 
gliding  in  the  blackness  toward  him.  He  flung  out 
his  arms  at  once,  and  cast  his  feet  back,  and  made 
toward  it.  In  the  gliding  hurry,  and  the  flit  of  30 
light,  it  passed  him  so  far  that  he  said  "  Good-by," 
and  then  perhaps  from  the  attraction  of  bodies  it 
seemed  for  a  second  to  stop,  and  the  hand  he  cast 
forth  laid  hold  of  something.    His  own  head  went 


A   RESCUE.  89 

under  water,  and  he  swallowed  a  good  mouthful; 
but  he  stuck  to  what  he  had  got  hold  of,  as  behooves 
an  Englishman.  Then  he  heard  great  shouting 
upon  dry  land,  and  it  made  him  hold  the  tighter, 
5 "  Bravo,  my  noble  fellow!  "  He  heard;  he  was  get- 
ting a  little  tired;  but  encouragement  is  everything. 
"  Catch  it!  catch  it!  lay  hold!  lay  hold!  "  he  heard  in 
several  voices,  and  he  saw  the  splash  of  the  traces 
thrown,  but  had  no  chance  to  lay  hold  of  them. 

10  The  powc  of  the  black  stream  swept  him  on,  and  he 
vainly  strove  for  either  bank,  unless  he  would  let 
loose  his  grasp,  and  he  would  rather  drown  with  it 
than  do  that. 

Now,  who  saved  him  and  his  precious  salvage? 

15  A  poor,  despised,  and  yet  clever  boy,  whose  only 
name  was  Bonny.  When  Gregory  Lovejoy  had 
lashed  the  Woeburn  with  his  traces  vainly,  and  Ma- 
bel had  fixed  her  shawl  to  the  end  cf  them,  and  the 
tall  man  who  followed  the  gig  had  dropped  into  the 

20  water  quietly,  and  Bottler  disturbed  by  the  shout- 
ing had  left  his  pigs  and  shone  conspicuous — not 
one  of  them  could  have  done  a  bit  of  good,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Bonny.  From  no  great  vn'or  on  the 
part  of  the  boy,  but  from  a  quick-witted  sugges- 

25  tion. 

His  suggestion  had  to  cross  the  water,  as  many 
good  suggestions  have  to  do;  and  but  for  Bottler's 
knowledge  of  his  voice,  nobody  would  have  noticed 
it. 

30  "  Ye'll  nab  'em  down  to  bridge,"  he  cried;  "  hum 
down  to  bridge,  and  ye'll  nab  'em.  Tell  un  not  to 
faight  so." 

"  Let  yoursen  go  with  the  strame,"  shouted  Bot- 
tler to  the  gallant  Charlie;  "  no  use  faighting  for  the 


90  NARRA  TION. 

bank.     There's  a  tree  as  crosseth  down  below;  and 
us'll  pull  'ee  both  out,  when  'a  gets  there." 

Charlie  had  his  head  well  up,  and  saw  the  wisdom 
of  this  counsel.     He  knew  by  long  battle  that  he 
could  do  nothing  against  the  tenor  of  the  Woeburn,  5 
and  the  man  who  had  leaped  in  to  help  him,  brave 
and  strong  as  he  was,  could  only  follow  as  the  water 
listed.     The    water    went    at    one    set    pace,    and 
swimmers  only  floated.     And  now  it  was  a  breath- 
less race  for  the  people  on  the  dry  land  to  gain  the  10 
long  tree  that  spanned  the  Woeburn,  ere  its  vic- 
tims were  carried  under.     And  but  for  sailor  Love- 
joy's  skill  and  presence  of  mind  in  seeking  down- 
ward, and  paddhng  more  than  swimming,  the  swift 
stream  would  have  been  first  at  the  bridge;  and  then  15 
no  other  chance  for  them. 

As  it  was,  the  runners  were  just  in  time,  with 
scarcely  a  second  to  spare  for  it.  Three  men  knelt 
on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  while  Mabel  knelt  in  the 
snow  and  prayed.  The  merciless  stream  was  a  2c 
fathom  below  them.  But  they  hung  the  stanch 
traces  in  two  broad  loops,  made  good  at  each  end 
in  a  fork  of  bough,  and  they  showed  him  where  they 
were  by  flipping  the  surface  of  the  water. 

Clinging  to  his  helpless  burden  still,  and  doing  25 
his  best  to  support  it,  the  young  sailor  managed  to 
grasp  the  leather;  but  his  strength  was  spent  and 
he  could  not  rise,  and  all  things  swam  round  him; 
the  snowy  banks,  the  eager  faces,  the  white  form  he 
held,  and  the  swift  black  current — all  like  a  vision  30 
swept  through  his  brain,  and  might  sweep  on  for- 
ever. His  wits  were  gone,  and  he  must  have  fol- 
lowed, and  been  swept  away  to  another  world,  if  a 
powerful  swimmer  had  not  dashed  up  in  full  com- 


A   RESCUE.  91 

mand  of  all  faculties.  The  tall  man,  whom  nobody 
had  heeded  in  the  rush  and  hurry,  came  down  the 
black  gorge  with  his  head  well  up,  and  the  speed 
and  strength  of  an  osprey.  He  seized  the  broad 
5  traces  with  such  a  grasp  that  the  timber  above  them 
trembled,  and  he  bore  himself  up  with  his  chest  tq 
the  stream,  and  tearing  off  his  neckcloth,  fastened 
first  the  drowned  white  figure  and  then  poor 
Charlie,  to  the  loop  of  the  strap  and  saw  them  drawn 
roup  together;  then  gathering  all  his  remaining  pow- 
ers, he  struck  for  the  bank,  and  gained  it. 

"Hurra!"  shouted  Bottler;  and  everyone  pres- 
ent, Mabel  included,  joined  the  shout. 

"  Be  quick!  be  quick!     It  is  no  time  for  words," 

15  cried  the  tall  man,  shaking  his  dress  on  the  snow; 

"let  me  have  the  lady;  you  bring  the  fine  fellow 

as  quickly  as  possible  to  Bottler's  yard.     Bottler, 

just  show  us  the  shortest  way." 

"  To  be  sure,  sir,"  Mr.  Bottler  answered;  "  but, 
20  major,  you  cannot  carry  her,  and  the  drops  are 
freezing  on  you." 

"  Do  as  I  told  you.  Run  in  front  of  me ;  and  just 
show  the  shortest  road." 

"Dash  my  stockings!"  cried  Master  Bottler, 
25 "  they  won't  be  worth  looking  at  to-morrow.  And 
all  through  the  snow,  I've  a  kept  un  white.  And  I 
an't  got  any  more  clean  ones." 

However,  he  took  a  short  cut  to  his  yard;  while 
Aylmer,  with  the  lady  in  his  arms,  and  her  head 
30  hanging  over  his  shoulder,  followed  so  fast,  that  the 
good  pig-sticker  could  scarcely  keep  in  front  of  him. 
"  Never  mind  me,"  cried  brave  Charlie,  reviving;  "  I 
am  as  right  as  ever.  Mabel,  go  on  and  help;  though 
I  fear  it  is  too  late  to  do  any  good." 


92  NARRA  riON. 

"  Whoever  it  is,  it  is  dead  as  a  stone,"  said  the 
counselor,  wiping  the  wet  from  his  sleeves;  "  it  fell 
away  from  me  like  an  empty  bag;  you  might  have 
spared  your  ducking,  Charlie.  But  it  must  have 
been  a  lovely  young  woman,"  5 

"  Dead  or  alive,  I  have  done  my  duty.  But  don't 
you  know  who  it  is?     Oh,  Mabel!" 

"How  could  I  see  her  face?"  said  Mabel;  "the 
men  would  not  let  me  touch  her.  And  about  here 
I  know  no  one."  lo 

"  Yes,  you  do.  You  know  Alice  Lorraine.  It 
is  poor  Sir  Roland's  daughter." 

— Alice  Lorraine. 

Notes. — This  second  selection  from  "  Alice  Lorraine" 
suggests  the  limitations  under  which  the  point  of  view, 
whether  fixed  or  steadily  moving,  may  be  distinctly  15 
changed.  The  several  points  of  view  in  the  early  part  of 
the  story — Bonny's,  Mabel's,  and  even  the  sailor's — are 
really  all  one  ;  they  blend,  and  represent  the  piirsuing 
view  of  the  floating  object ;  all  the  spectators  are  follow- 
ing this  with  the  eye  as  it  goes  down  stream.  But  this  20 
hopeless  point  of  view  is  changed  and  forgotten  when  once 
the  suggestion  is  made  to  run  down  stream  and  catch  the 
drowning  person  as  she  is  swept  by  the  log  bridge.  The 
bridge  immediately  becomes  the  waiting  point  of  view. 
It  may  now  be  queried  whether  the  end  of  the  selection  25 
(and  chapter)  brings  the  reader  to  the  end  of  the  incident. 
The  drowning  lady  is  rescued  from  the  river,  carried  into 
a  safe  place,  and  recognized.  Should  the  chapter  also 
have  told  us  whether  or  not  she  recovered  ?  If  the  passage 
were  an  independent  whole,  the  answer  would  doubtless  3° 
be  yes.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  a  person  half-frozen  and 
almost  drowned  could  not  be  restored  in  a  few  minutes, 
the  narrative  of  the  restoration  ought  in  such  a  case  to  be 
foreshortened,  and  the  reader's  mind  relieved  from  sus- 


THE  FIVE   DA  YS  IN  MILAN.  93 

pense.  In  a  novel,  however,  there  might  be  plot  reasons 
which  would  warrant  a  digression  at  this  point.  Readers 
of  "  Alice  Lorraine"  will  settle  this  particular  question  for 
themselves. 


30.--Q;be  fflve  Bags  in  ^Uan. 

{March,  1848.) 
W.   J.    STILLMAN. 

5  The  war  between  Piedmont  and  Austria  is  so  in- 
timately connected,  both  in  its  inception  and  its 
course,  with  the  insurrection  of  Lombardy  and 
Venice,  that  before  discussing  the  events  of  that 
war  we  must  trace  the  history  of  the  movements  in 

10  the  Austrian  provinces,  to  which  it  was  so  largely 
due.  For  a  good  many  years,  no  open  movement 
had  broken  the  apparent  repose  of  the  territories 
subjected  to  Austria  in  northern  Italy.  It  may  be 
that  even  during  the  long  period  of  catalepsy,  which 

15  supervened  in  the  provinces  of  Lombardy  and  Ven- 
ice, conspiracies  existed,  though  better  concealed 
than  before,  taught  by  the  bitter  experiences  of  the 
past.  But  this  time  it  was  not  Piedmont,  nor  a  con- 
stitutional sovereign  that  woke  Italy  from  her  sleep, 

20  but  the  Pope.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  sig- 
nal for  the  liberation  of  Italy  was  in  effect  given  by 
Pius  IX.  And  the  slow  vengeance  of  pubHc  opin- 
ion in  other  lands  had  begun  to  tell  on  the  Austrian 
government,  which,  as  it  had  been  enabled  to  hold 

85  its  possession  in  Italy  only  by  the  connivance  of  the 
other  European  powers,  England  included,  found 
that  the  growing  conviction  of  its  unfitness  to  gov- 
ern was  weakening  the  support  in  which  its  secu- 


94  NARRA  TION. 

rity  had  consisted.  The  initiative  of  the  Pope  for 
the  first  time  reconciled  religious  sentiment  with 
Italian  aspirations  after  liberty.  The  clergy,  with 
its  immense  ascendency  over  the  rural  population, 
always  the  last  to  be  brought  into  any  political  5 
movement,  in  great  part  took  the  path  of  political 
reform,  and  carried  with  it,  not  only  the  rural 
classes,  but  that  part  of  the  nobility  which  still  re- 
mained devoted  to  the  Church.  What  was  of  still 
greater  importance,  it  gave  the  real  liberals,  whoioi 
only  wanted  an  authoritative  name  to  lead  them, 
a  justification  for  renewing  an  agitation  which 
Austria,  devoted  to  the  Church,  could  no  longer 
resent  as  she  had  resented  the  initiative  of  her 
lay  subjects.  Pius  IX.  became  the  symbol  of  Ital-15 
ian  liberty,  and  demonstrations,  nominally  reli- 
gious, became  synonymous  with  protests  against  the 
Austrian  government.  Busts  of  the  Pope  carried 
through  the  streets  of  Milan  excited  enthusiastic 
demonstrations,  but  in  spite  of  all  the  vigilance  of  20 
the  police  no  open  act  justified  repressive  meas- 
ures. 

The  measure  which  finally  provoked  the  outbreak 
was  the  prohibition  by  the  liberal  committees  of  the 
use  of  tobacco,  the  monopoly  of  which,  held  by  the  25 
Austrian  government,  was  one  of  its  principal 
sources  of  income.  All  the  youth  of  the  liberal 
party  bound  themselves  under  no  circumstances  to 
smoke,  and  to  prevent,  if  possible,  others  from 
smoking  in  public.  On  the  3d  of  January,  1848,30 
the  Viceroy  wrote  to  Governor  Spaur:  "As  to  the 
prohibition  to  smoke  tobacco — in  order  to  catch  in 
the  act  those  agitators  who  abuse  or  maltreat  peo- 
ple who  smoke,  the  best  expedient  would  be  to 


THE   FIVE  DAYS  IN  MILAN.  95 

order  some  policemen  in  civil  costume,  or  gen- 
darmes, to  walk  the  streets  with  cigars  in  their 
mouths,  and  to  have  them  followed  at  a  little  dis- 
tance by  other  guards  also  in  civil  costume  with 

5  orders  to  arrest  those  who  disturb  the  smokers." 
On  the  same  day  the  people  attempted  to  snatch  the 
cigars  from  the  mouths  of  the  officers,  and  a  con- 
flict ensued  in  which  live  citizens  were  killed  and 
fifty-nine  wounded.     This  was  the  signal  for  the 

10  bursting  of  the  storm.  Preparations  were  made  on 
both  sides  for  the  conflict,  and  on  the  i8th,^  the  news 
of  the  revolution  at  Vienna,  which  began  on  March 
13,  quickened  the  ardor  of  the  insurgents  into  ac- 
tion.    Slight  concessions  on  the  part  of  the  gov- 

15  ernment  only  stimulated  still  more  the  determina- 
tion to  obtain  reforms.  Proclamations  were  se- 
cretly posted  throughout  Milan  demanding  reforms 
under  the  menace  of  immediate  revolt.  On  the 
same  day,  a  popular  demonstration  moved  towards 

20  the  Governor's  palace.  The  masses,  scarcely  know- 
ing with  what  purpose  the  demonstration  had  been 
organized,  joined  the  demonstrators,  and  the  sol- 
diers on  guard,  apprehending  hostile  movements, 
fired  on  the  people.     The  crowd  dispersed  but  im- 

25  mediately  started  the  cry  "  to  arms."  Barricades 
were  thrown  up,  arms  were  gathered,  and  the  con- 
flict began,  in  wdiich,  during  five  days,  all  classes  of 
the  inhabitants,  men,  women  and  children,  engaged 
in  perhaps  the  most  brilliant  feat  of  unorganized 

30  courage  which  the  history  of  Europe  can  record. 
In  every  quarter  of  the  city  barricades  blocked  the 
movements  of  the  troops, — by  the  20th  they 
amounted  to  1700;  cannon  were  made  of  wood  with 
bands  of  iron,  powder  was  manufactured,  and  a 
'  [Of  March,  1848.] 


96  NARRA  TION. 

long,  desperate  and  singular  struggle  was  carried 
on  through  the  streets  of  Milan,  with  horrible  bru- 
tality on  the  part  of  the  troops  and  incredible  au- 
dacity on  that  of  the  population. 

No  plans  had  been  formed  which  could  be  be-  5 
trayed,  but  the  accumulated  indignation  of  the  en- 
tire people  and  the  momentary  weakness  of  the  gov- 
ernment, unprepared  for  so  sudden  and  spontane- 
ous a  movement,  urged  discontent  to  action.     Iso- 
lated collisions  in  the  streets  had  led  to  an  attack  10 
on  the  Broletto,  where  in  the  headquarters  of  the 
municipality  a  few  hundred  people,  of  whom  sixty 
only  were  armed,  had  gathered  in  council.     They 
were  attacked  by  two  thousand  Croats  and  Bohe- 
mian troops,  and  were  dispersed  after  a  conflict  of  15 
two  hours  partly   carried   on  with  tiles  from   the 
roofs. 

Radetzky  supposed  all  to  be  over,  and  made 
known  to  the  municipality  his  determination  to 
crush  all  signs  of  discontent,  even  by  the  bombard-  20 
ment,  if  necessary,  of  the  city.  That  night  it 
rained  and  the  troops  occupied  themselves  in  de- 
stroying the  barricades  which  were  springing  up, 
but  the  morning  of  the  19th  was  fine,  and  masses  of 
the  citizens  thronged  the  streets,  plotting  mischief,  25 
but  without  organization.  It  was  the  explosion  of  a 
long  repressed  fury  which  was  indifferent  to  all  dan- 
gers. Here  and  there,  as  if  by  inspiration,  centers  of 
organization  appeared;  churches,  shops,  and  houses 
were  closed,  the  bells  rang  the  call  to  arms,  and  30 
the  barricades  sprang  up  again  everywhere;  arms 
were  seized  wherever  they  could  be  found — arms  of 
all  epochs  and  every  description — the  furniture  of 
the  houses  was  carried  out  to  form  or  heighten  the 


THE  FIVE  DA  YS  IN  MILAN.  97 

barricades,  and  the  energetic  and  long  suffering 
population  poured  out  of  their  dwellings  in  a  state 
of  frenzy,  which  made  no  account  of  obstacles. 
Wherever  the  troops  ventured  into  the  streets  to  at- 
5  tack  the  barricades,  tiles,  furniture,  stones,  beams, 
boiling  oil,  were  poured  on  them;  even  the  women 
took  part  in  the  fight.  The  chiefs,  Luciano  Ma- 
nara,  Enrico  Dandolo,  Luigi  della  Porta,  Augusto 
Anfossi  and  others,  passed  from  street  to  street, 

10  from  house  to  house,  to  encourage  the  combatants, 
without  sleeping  or  resting.  A  fever  of  combat 
spread  its  fiery  contagion  through  the  entire  popu- 

■  lation,  and  overpowered  discipline  and  armaments. 
On  this  day,  the  19th,  Anfossi,  at  the  head  of  a 

15  resolute  band,  attacked  and  carried  the  Porta 
Nuova,  a  strong  position  which  swept  two  of  the 
principal  streets,  and  gave  a  solid  center  for  con- 
centration. The  troops  seemed  stupefied,  the  per- 
petual clamor  of  the  bells,  the  ever  present  attacks, 

20  the  very  ragamuffins  of  the  streets  taken  with  the 
frenzy  of  battle  and  utterly  indifferent  to  danger, 
mocking,  jeering  and  deceiving  the  troops,  the  rain 
of  projectiles  from  the  roofs,  the  audacity  of  the 
assailants,  all  these  things  affected  even  the  Marshal 

25  and  paralyzed  his  resolution.  The  municipal  au- 
thorities, with  the  mayor  at  their  head,  made  feeble 
efforts  by  half-hearted  measures  to  reconcile  popu- 
lace and  government,  but  finally  yielded  to  the  drift 
of  insurrection  and  practically  withdrew.     A  coun- 

3ocil  of  war  was  formed,  composed  of  Carlo  Cattaneo, 
the  real  head  of  the  movement,  Giulio  Terzaghi,  and 
Giorgio  Qerici,  nobles,  and  Enrico  Cernuschi,  ple- 
beian and  republican.  This  self-nominated  com- 
mittee of  public  safety  was  recognized  by  the  in- 


98  NARRA  TION. 

surgents  as  in  control  of  the  insurrection,  and  unity 
of  action  was  thus  secured.  The  Austrians  were  in 
possession  of  the  Cathedral — from  the  roof  of  which 
the  Tyrolese  riflemen  fired  on  the  people — the  Royal 
palace,  the  Palace  of  Justice,  the  headquarters  of  the  5 
police,  the  municipal  palace,  the  barracks  and  the 
Castle.  During  the  night  of  the  19th  and  20th  the 
Marshal  had  occupied  the  bastions  at  the  right  and 
the  left  of  the  gates  to  secure  the  way  for  re-enforce- 
ments from  the  outside,  and  threatened  the  bom- 10 
bardment  of  the  city. 

All  through  the  20th  it  rained  in  torrents,  but  the 
struggle  continued  fiercely.  General  Clam  held  his 
own  at  the  Porta  Ticinese,  but  elsewhere  the  Aus- 
trian resistance  began  to  give  way.  The  Tyrolese,  15 
harassed  by  the  fire  of  the  insurgents,  abandoned 
the  pinnacles  of  the  cathedral  whence  they  had  fired 
on  the  streets  below.  General  Rath  abandoned  the 
royal  palace,  and  the  people  captured  the  police 
office  and  the  Courts,  where  they  liberated  all  the  20 
political  prisoners,  retaining  in  prison  only  those 
accused  of  common  crimes.  The  spirit  of  the  peo- 
ple was  as  humane  as  courageous.  Bolza,  one  of 
the  principal  persecutors,  was  found  hidden  in  a 
hayloft  and  was  about  to  be  put  to  death  by  the  25 
people,  when  Carlo  Cattaneo  exclaimed:  "  If  you 
kill  him,  you  do  justice;  if  you  spare  him  you  will 
be  acting  nobly  ";  and  he  was  spared.  At  the  Tri- 
bunale  the  people  destroyed  all  the  documents,  car- 
ried away  all  the  arms,  and  liberated  all  the  women,  30 
but  spared  all  the  police  officers  who  had  hidden  in 
the  cellars,  and  carried  the  wounded  to  the  hospital. 
Count  Thurn,  who  had  ordered  the  arrest  of  Bo- 
gazzi,  in  consequence  of  a  quarrel  in  the  streets,  was 


THE  FIVE  DA  YS  IN  MILAN.  99 

released.  A  proclamation  put  forth  by  the  Coun- 
cil of  War,  and  headed  by  the  words :  "  Italia 
libera"  ran  as  follows:  "  Brave  citizens,  let  us  keep 
our  city  pure;  let  us  not  condescend  to  revenge  our- 
5  selves  by  the  blood  of  these  miserable  satellites 
whom  the  fugitive  government  leaves  in  our  hands. 
It  is  enough  now  to  watch  them  and  notify  them. 
It  is  true  that  for  thirty  years  they  have  been  the 
scourge  of  our  families  and  the  abomination  of  the 

lo  country,  but  you  will  be  generous  as  you  have  been 
brave.  Punish  them  with  contempt  and  make  an 
offer  of  them  to  Pius  IX."  The  brutality  of  the 
troops  was  in  strong  contrast  with  the  conduct  of 
the  insurgents.     The  soldiers  broke  open  the  doors 

15  of  a  tavern  near  St.  Mark's  and  murdered  the  cook 
and  three  other  persons,  after  having  tortured  them 
in  various  ways;  they  then  roasted  alive  two  chil- 
dren and  repeatedly  bayonetted  a  pregnant  woman, 
after  which  they  set  fire  to  the  house  and  withdrew.* 

20  On  the  20th,  at  midday,  the  commander  of  the 
Croats,  Baron  Ettinghausen,  presented  himself  to 
the  Council  of  War,  saying  that  he  came  not  as  an 
envoy  from  the  Marshal  but  on  his  own  account  to 
intervene,  being  moved  by  a  sentiment  of  humanity. 

25  He  proposed  a  truce  of  fifteen  days.  During  this 
time  the  Marshal  should  keep  all  the  troops  shut  up 
in  eight  different  localities;  the  civic  guard  should 
be  regularly  organized,  and  all  the  positions  occu- 
pied by  the  citizens  should  be  put  in  a  state  of  per- 

3omanent  efficiency.  The  municipality,  which  de- 
luded itself  with  the  idea  of  continuing  in  this  state 
of  semi-legality  from  which  it  had  not  yet  emerged, 

*Archivw  Trzennale,  on  the  authority  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  witnesses. 


lOo  NARRA  TION. 

entertained  the  idea  of  the  truce:  at  the  worst,  it 
would  have  been  able  to  maintain  its  communica- 
tions  with    the    surrounding   country.     But   at    a 
joint-meeting  held   by   the   municipality   and   the 
Council  of  War,  the  proposition  of  the  truce  was    5 
rejected  by  a  large  majority,  it  being  seen  that  in 
these  fifteen  days  Radetzky  could  collect  troops 
from  without,  sufficient  to  crush  Milan.  The  reply 
to  Ettinghausen  was,  "  Say  to  the  Marshal  that  if 
he  insists  on  continuing  to  fight,   the  nobles  in  ^o 
Milan  will  know  how  to  bury  themselves  under  the 
ruins  of  their  palaces."  The  Council  of  War,  com- 
bative  and   republican,    was    in    conflict   with   the 
royalist  municipality,  which  desired  to  maintain  a 
prudent  attitude.    The  MaA^or,  timid  and  undecided,  ^5 
did  not  enjoy  the  confidence  of  the  Council  of  War 
and  was  kept  under  guard,  but  after  the  conference 
with  Ettinghausen  the  municipality  issued  a  proc- 
lamation claiming  the  entire  direction  of  affairs, 
and  formed  itself  into  a  committee  of  public  secu-  ^o 
rity  for  the  supervision  of  subsistence  and  finance. 
During  the  21st    the  struggle  went  on.     A  cer- 
tain number  of  combatants  from  outside  made  their 
way  in  and  strengthened  the  forces  of  the  insurg- 
ents, and  the  employees  of  the  railways  united  in  25 
bands   under   their   inspector    Borgazzi,    who   was 
killed  on  the  fourth  day  of  the  struggle  in  the  at- 
tack on  Porta  Tosa.     The  network  of  barricades, 
held  strongly  by  reckless  masses  of  the  people,  made 
all  movements  of  the  troops  in  the  streets  impossi-30 
ble.     Radetzky  wrote  to  Fiquelmont:  "The  nature 
of  these  people,  it  seems  to  me,  has  been  trans- 
formed; fanaticism  has  invaded  all  ages,  all  classes 
and  both  sexes,"    On  the  same  day,  the  Council  of 


THE  FIVE  DAYS  IN  MILAN.  lOl 

War  demanded  the  assistance  of  all  who  had  any 
military  experience,  and  numbers  of  those  who  had 
served  in  the  army  of  Napoleon  offered  their  serv- 
ices. The  center  of  the  city  was  now  entirely  aban- 
5  doned  by  the  Austrians,  and  the  combatants  who 
had  held  the  barricades  in  that  quarter,  now  no 
longer  assailable,  were  ordered  to  man  the  external 
barricades.  During  the  night  the  people  had 
worked  with  feverish  energy  on  movable  breast- 

lo  works  which  they  had  planted  under  the  walls.  The 
Council  of  War  ordered  an  attack  on  the  headquar- 
ters, on  the  barracks  of  the  engineers  and  the  staff, 
and  the  barracks  of  San  Francisco.  Pasquale  Sot- 
tocorno,  an  old  and  crippled  man  of  the  people,  car- 

15  ried  straw  and  hay,  which  he  piled  before  the  gate 
of  the  engineers'  barrack  and  set  fire  to  the  door. 
In  the  capture  of  the  engineers'  quarters  one  hun- 
dred and  sixty  soldiers  were  taken  prisoners. 
The  foreign  consuls  having  on  the  20th  of  March 

20  protested  against  the  bombardment  of  the  city, 
Radetzky  replied  that  he  would  postpone  it  for  an- 
other day  on  condition  that  all  hostilities  on  the 
part  of  the  Milanese  should  cease,  and  this  propo- 
sition was  supported  by  the  consuls  at  the  munici- 

25  pality.  The  Council  of  War,  however,  refused  any 
such  concession  and  declined  the  truce.  The  Aus- 
trian troops,  as  Radetzky's  dispatches  testify,  were 
exhausted  and  had  need  of  a  rest  in  order  to  en- 
able them  to  continue  the  struggle.     On  the  other 

30  hand,  it  was  urged  that  the  city  had  only  provisions 
enough  for  twenty-four  hours  more,  but  Cattaneo  re- 
plied, "  Twenty-four  hours  of  food  and  twenty-four 
hours  of  fasting  give  us  more  than  time  enough  to 
conquer,  and  at  the  end  it  is  better  to  die  of  hunger 


I02  NARRA  TION. 

than  on  the  gallows."  On  the  discussion  in  the 
Municipal  Council,  the  proposition  of  a  three  days' 
truce  was  rejected  by  twelve  votes  against  three,  and 
the  municipality  replied  that  the  citizens  who  were 
charged  with  the  defense  of  the  city  did  not  accept  5 
the  proposition.  They  added  that,  as  Field-Mar- 
shal Count  Radetzky  had  been  notified,  even  if  the 
truce  were  consented  to,  the  ardor  of  the  combat- 
ants was  such  that  they  could  not  insure  its  observ- 
ance. 10 

Meanwhile  the  question  of  co-operation  with 
Piedmont  had  arisen.  A  messenger  had  been  sent 
to  Turin  on  a  confidential  mission  to  the  King,  who 
replied  that  he  wished  two  things:  that  a  body  of 
insurgents  or  deserters  should  draw  the  enemy  into  15 
a  violation  of  the  Sardinian  territory,  and  that  there 
should  be  sent  to  him  an  address  signed  by  the  no- 
bles. Enrico  Martini,  who  had  brought  this  mes- 
sage, also  proposed  that  they  should  immediately 
constitute  a  provisional  government  with  authority  20 
to  confer  on  Carlo  Alberto  the  sovereignty  of  Lom- 
bardy.  Cattaneo,  whom  circumstances  placed  at 
the  head  of  the  movement,  advised  that  the  decision 
of  such  questions  should  be  left  to  the  country,  and 
that  this  was  not  the  moment  to  consult  it.  "  Is  it  25 
then,"  he  said,  "  so  grievous  to  be  once  in  our  lives 
our  own  masters?  The  royal  houses  belong  to  no 
nation:  they  have  their  own  interests  apart  from 
ours,  and  are  always  ready  to  come  to  an  under- 
standing with  the  foreigner  against  their  people.  1 30 
am  firmly  convinced  that  it  is  necessary  to  appeal 
to  all  Italy  and  to  make  the  war  a  national  one. 
If  Carlo  Alberto  is  the  only  one  who  offers  to  inter- 
vene between  us  and  Austria,  then  the  admiration 


THE  FIVE  DA  YS  IN  MILAN.  103 

and  gratitude  of  the  people  will  be  the  prize  of  his 
generosity,  and  no  one  can  deny  the  right  of  the 
country  to  put  itself  under  his  authority."  Catta- 
neo  remembered  that  it  was  not  possible  to  trust 

5  Carlo  Alberto,  who  had  been  a  traitor  in  1S21,  and 
that  the  Lombard  nobility  had  offered  themselves  to 
Austria  in  1814.  He  declared  that,  on  account  of 
the  weakness  of  the  means  of  which  it  disposed,  he 
would  not  have  favored  the  insurrection,  but  that, 

to  now  that  it  existed,  the  assistance  of  all  Italy  was 
necessary,  and  this  would  not  be  obtained  if  Lom- 
bardy  gave  herself  to  Piedmont.  This  opposition 
of  Cattaneo  to  the  union  with  Piedmont  and  the  un- 
questionably republican  tendency  of  his  opinions 

15  were  never  forgiven  him  by  the  Lombard  nobility. 
On  the  2 1st,  the  Council  of  War  invited  all  the 
communes  of  Lombardy  to  constitute  local  coun- 
cils, which  should  occupy  themselves  with  the  ques- 
tion of  carrying  on  the  war.     This  invitation  said: 

20 "  We  ask  from  every  city,  from  every  section  of 
Italy,  a  little  detachment  of  bayonets,  which 
guided  by  some  good  captain,  should  come 
and  hold  a  general  assembly  at  the  foot  of 
the  Alps  to  arrive  at  a  final  and  conclusive  accord 

25  against  the  barbarians."  Late  that  night  the  mu- 
nicipality, timid  and  vacillating,  finally  decided  to 
form  itself  into  a  provisional  government.  The  for- 
mation of  this  government  encountered  opposition 
from  the  Council  of  War  and  serious  discord  was 

30  threatened,  but  finally,  on  the  advice  of  Correnti, 
the  Council  of  War  was  fused  with  the  Committee 
appointed  by  the  municipality  and  the  two  were 
united  in  a  provisional  government.  This  govern- 
ment issued  a  manifesto  as  follows:  "The  armistice 


104  NARRATION. 

oflfered  by  the  enemy  has  been  refused  by  us  accord- 
ing to  the  will  of  the  people,  which  wishes  to  fight. 
We  fight  then  with  the  same  courage  which  has 
made  us  victorious  in  these  four  days  and  we  will 
still  conquer.  Citizens,  we  receive  unflinchingly  5 
this  last  assault  of  the  oppressors  with  the  confi- 
dence which  is  born  of  the  certainty  of  victory. 
Let  the  rejoicing  bells  respond  to  the  sound  of  the 
cannons  and  the  bombs,  and  let  the  enemy  see  that 
we  know  how  to  fight  cheerfully  and  to  die  cheer-  lo 
fully.  The  country  adopts  as  its  children  the 
orphans  of  those  who  die  in  battle,  and  assures  to 
the  wounded  its  gratitude  and  assistance." 

Henceforward  there  was  no  way  to  turn  back. 
Either  Milan  would  conquer  or  she  would  be  buried  15 
in  ruins.  On  the  morning  of  the  22d,  it  being 
foggy  and  rainy,  while  one  portion  of  the  citizens 
strengthened  the  barricades  by  means  of  movable 
barriers  consisting  of  masses  of  fagots,  another  at- 
tacked Porta  Tosa,  which  was  defended  by  one  20 
thousand  Austrians  with  six  pieces  of  artillery,  and 
at  night-fall  took  it  by  assault.  The  city  was  thus 
opened  to  the  outer  world;  the  people  from  the  dif- 
ferent sections  entered  freely,  and  the  communica- 
tions of  the  Austrians  from  bastion  to  bastion  were  25 
broken.  The  Austrians  abandoned  several  of  the 
gates,  and  the  civic  forces,  reassured  by  the  prospect 
of  being  able  to  renew  their  supplies,  redoubled 
their  aggressive  activity.  Alarmed  by  the  progress 
which  the  Milanese  made  in  every  direction  and  by  30 
the  rumors  that  the  Piedmontese  army  had  passed 
the  frontier,  thus  threatening  his  supplies  of  am- 
munition and  food,  the  Marshal  determined  to  evac- 
uate Milan,  preferring  the  humiliation  of  retreat  to 


THE   FIVE  DA  YS  IN  MILAM.  105 

the  risk  of  exposing  his  troops  to  surrender  or 
starvation.  He  left  behind  him  the  treasury,  with 
two  millions  of  florins,  and  on  the  night  of  the  22d, 
at  eleven  o'clock,  covering  his  retreat  with  the  thun- 
5  der  of  his  guns,  he  withdrew  from  the  line  of  forti- 
fications. 

His  retreat  being  unobserved  was  unmolested, 
and  following  the  line  of  the  Austrian  fortresses  in 
the  direction  of  Lodi,  he  arrived  during  the  night  at 

10  Melegnano,  where  a  slight  resistance  which  was 
offered  to  his  passage  was  easily  overcome.  He 
rested  at  Lodi  from  the  night  of  the  24th  to  the 
morning  of  the  26th,  whence  he  retired  slowly 
through  Crema  to  Verona,  where  he  arrived  be- 

15  tween  the  5th  and  6th,  without  having  been  mo- 
lested in  any  one  of  the  many  ways  by  which  the 
citizens  might  have  harassed  his  retreat.  Milan 
was  exhausted  by  the  heroic  efforts  of  the  five  days, 
and  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  Austrians  depart 

20  was  so  great  that  no  one  dreamed  of  imposing  ob- 
stacles to  the  retreat;  Milan,  in  fact,  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  23d  of  March,  was  surprised  to  find  itself 
free.  Cattaneo  estimates  the  loss  of  the  Austrians 
at  four  thousand  men;  the  Austrian  account  esti- 

25  mates  it  at  four  hundred  killed  and  wounded — a  dis- 
parity which  suggests  exaggeration  on  both  sides; 
but  certainly  so  small  a  sacrifice  as  the  Austrians 
admit  hardly  justifies  their  evacuation  of  the  city. 
The  dead  on  the  Milanese  side  were  three  hundred 

30  and  fifty,  and  there  were  six  hundred  wounded. 

In  this  conflict,  which  is  the  most  memorable 

among  all  the  struggles  for  Italian  liberation,  all 

classes  of  society  had  taken  part;  many  young  men 

of  the  higher  circles  mingled  in  the  movement  with 


106  NARRATION. 

workmen,  artisans  and  populace,  and  paid  their  por- 
tion of  losses.  The  greater  part  of  the  clergy  had 
helped  in  the  revolution;  the  Archbishop  of  Milan 
had  blessed  it;  the  parish  priests  of  the  city  and  of 
the  country  round  about  had  rung  their  bells  and  5 
spread  the  alarm,  and  some  had  even  preached  in 
its  support.  The  parish  priest  of  Paderno  had  led 
the  people  in  an  attack  on  the  Austrians;  a  priest 
was  wounded  at  Porta  Tosa,  and  even  the  women, 
so  great  was  the  excitement,  took  part  in  the  com- 10 
bat.  One  Louisa  Battistotti,  in  the  uniform  of  a 
fusilier,  never  abandoned  her  weapons  for  five  days. 
All  the  contemporary  writers  testify  to  the  inde- 
scribable cruelty  of  the  Austrians,  Bodies  of  many 
children  were  found,  and  women  and  men  were  15 
murdered  and  burned.  The  list  of  their  names  is 
given  by  Tivaroni,  and  in  it  are  those  of  thirty  wo- 
men. It  is  greatly  to  the  credit  of  Milan,  that  the 
wounded  and  sick  and  the  families  of  the  Austrian 
soldiers  and  functionaries  remaining  in  Milan  were  20 
unmolested.  The  Austrians  were  doubtless  ren- 
dered less  averse  to  the  evacuation  of  Milan  by  the 
reflection  that  the  arrival  of  their  re-enforcements 
and  the  want  of  military  organization  among  the 
Milanese  would  facilitate  the  recapture  of  the  city.  25 
The  tenacity  with  which  Radetzky  clung  to  his  posi- 
tion had  more  of  military  amour  propre  than  strategi- 
cal importance.  If  the  country  districts  had  risen,  to 
be  shut  up  in  Milan  would  have  been  destruction; 
if  the  country  surrendered,  Milan  was  easy  to  cap- 30 
ture;  and  while  the  heroism  of  Milan  remains  undi- 
minished in  its  luster,  the  lengthened  resistance  of 
the  garrison  was  superfluous  from  the  military 
point  of  view. 


THE  FIVE  DA  YS  IN  MILAN.  107 

In  the  country  round  about,  the  movement  in 
sympathy  with  the  insurrection  in  Milan  varied 
greatly.  Some  sections  caught  the  inspiration  of 
combat,  others  remained  absolutely  lethargic.  Had 
5  the  rising  been  general,  the  position  of  the  Austri- 
ans  would  have  been  serious,  and  the  retreat  of  the 
garrison  of  Milan  might  have  been  easily  turned  into 
a  surrender.  At  Mantua  a  movement  was  at- 
tempted, but  through  want  of  union  the  Austrian 

10  garrison  was  able  to  maintain  its  position.  At  Piz- 
zighettone  the  little  garrison  surrendered  the  forti- 
fications, but  Brescia  was  the  only  important  for- 
tress which  followed  the  example  of  Milan. 

At  Brescia  the  insurrectionary  organization  had 

15  always  been  combined  with  the  plan  of  co-operating 
with  the  Piedmontese  whenever  that  should  be  pos- 
sible. On  the  2ist  of  March  the  insurrection  broke 
out.  The  city,  after  a  short  struggle,  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  people,  and  the  defense  was  organized 

20  by  exiles  who  had  returned  from  Turin.  On  the 
22d,  the  soldiers  of  an  Italian  regiment  in  the  Aus- 
trian garrison  of  Brescia  joined  the  people  and  sum- 
moned Schwartzenburg  to  surrender.  Having  cap- 
tured the  arsenal  and  two  barracks  with  a  loss  of 

25  ten  killed  and  thirty-five  wounded,  they  permitted 
the  Austrians  to  retire  to  the  Oglio  with  four  thou- 
sand men,  where  they  protected  the  retreat  of 
Radetzky,  while  another  party  of  the  insurgents 
captured   a  convoy   of  ammunition   coming  from 

30  Verona.  The  rising  of  Brescia  was  followed  by 
similar  movements  in  Monza,  Como  and  other 
Lombard  cities. 

—  The  Union  of  Italy. 

Notes. — This  specimen  illustrates  the  impersonal  type  of 


I08  NARRATION. 

historical  narrative.  Nothing  is  more  characteristic  of  a 
trained  narrator  than  his  ability  to  write,  now  with  the 
personal  force  of  an  eyewitness,  now  with  the  impersonal 
force  of  events  themselves.  The  two  modes  may  be  illus- 
trated from  the  works  of  the  same  author  ;  Dr.  Stillman's  5 
"The  Subjective  of  It,"  or  his  "Experience  in  a  Greek 
Quarantine"'  may  be  contrasted  with  the  present  selec- 
tion. The  impersonal  quality  of  this  is  traceable  not  merely 
to  third  persons  singular  and  plural.  It  springs  in  part  from 
vivid  rapidity  of  narration,  which  holds  the  reader's  atten-  lo 
tion  to  the  events  themselves.  In  part,  too,  it  arises  from 
moderation  of  statement,  the  acKr]ci^  of  which  the  late  Mr. 
Pater  was  fond  of  speaking.  Further,  it  is  increased  by  an 
interpretation  of  the  historical  causes  of  the  uprising. 
Being  stated  first,  these  causes  shed  light  on  each  step  15 
of  the   ensuing  narrative. 


31.— ^be  Discovers  ot  a  Secret. 

GEORGE   MEREDITH. 

Starting  from  the  Hall  a  few  minutes  before  Dr. 
Middleton  and  Sir  Willoughby  had  entered  the 
drawing  room  over-night,  Vernon  parted  company 
with  Colonel  de  Craye  at  the  park  gates,  and  be- 20 
took  himself  to  the  cottage  of  the  Dales,  where 
nothing  had  been  heard  of  his  wanderer;  and  he  re- 
ceived the  same  disappointing  reply  from  Dr.  Cor- 
ney,  out  of  the  bedroom  window  of  the  genial  phy- 
sician, whose  astonishment  at  his  covering  so  long  25 
a  stretch  of  road  at  night  for  news  of  a  boy  like 
Crossjay — gifted  with  the  lives  of  a  cat — became 
violent  and  rapped  Punchlike  blows  on  the  window 

>  Both  in  '  The  Old  Rome  and  the  New  "  (Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.). 


THE  DISCOVERY  OF  A    SECRET.  log 

sill  at  Vernon's  refusal  to  take  shelter  and  rest. 
Vernon's  excuse  was  that  he  had  "  no  one  but  that 
fellow  to  care  for,"  and  he  strode  off,  naming  a  farm 
five  miles  distant.  Dr.  Corney  howled  an  invitation 
5  to  early  breakfast  to  him,  in  the  event  of  his  passing 
on  his  way  back,  and  retired  to  bed  to  think  of  him. 
The  result  of  a  variety  of  conjectures  caused  him  to 
set  Vernon  down  as  Miss  Middleton's  knight,  and 
he  felt  a  strong  compassion  for  his  poor  friend. 

lo"  Though,"  thought  he,  "a  hopeless  attachment  is 
as  pretty  an  accompaniment  to  the  tune  of  life  as  a 
gentleman  might  wish  to  have,  for  it's  one  of  those 
big  doses  of  discord  which  make  all  the  minor  ones 
fit  in  like  an  agreeable  harmony,  and  so  he  shuffles 

15  along  as  pleasantly  as  the  fortune-favored,  when 
they  come  to  compute!  " 

Sir  Willoughby  was  the  fortune-favored  in  the 
little  doctor's  mind;  that  high-stepping  gentleman 
having  wealth,  and  public  consideration,  and  the 

£omost  ravishing  young  lady  in  the  world  for  a  bride. 
Still,  though  he  reckoned  all  these  advantages  en- 
joyed by  Sir  Willoughby  at  their  full  value,  he  could 
imagine  the  ultimate  balance  of  good  fortune  to  be 
in  favor  of  Vernon.     But  to  do  so,  he  had  to  reduce 

25  the  whole  calculation  to  the  extreme  abstract,  and 
feed  his  lean  friend,  as  it  were,  on  dew  and  roots; 
and  the  happy  effect  for  Vernon  lay  in  a  distant  fu- 
ture, on  the  borders  of  old  age,  where  he  was  to  be 
blessed  with  his  lady's  regretful  preference,  and  re- 

sojoice  in  the  fruits  of  good  constitutional  habits. 
The  reviewing  mind  was  Irish.  Sir  Willoughby 
was  a  character  of  man  profoundly  opposed  to  Dr. 
Corney 's  nature;  the  latter's  instincts  bristled  with 
antagonism — not  to  his  race,  for  Vernon  was  of  the 


no  NARRATION. 

same  race,  partly  of  the  same  blood,  and  Corney 
loved  him:  the  type  of  person  was  the  annoyance. 
And  the  circumstance  of  its  prevailing  successful- 
ness  in  the  country  where  he  was  placed,  while  it 
held  him  silent  as  if  under  a  law,  heaped  stores  of  5 
insurgency  in  the  Celtic  bosom.  Corney  contem- 
plating Sir  Willoughby,  and  a  trotting  kern  lass 
governed  by  Strongbow,  have  a  point  of  likeness 
between  them ;  with  the  point  of  difference  that  Cor- 
ney was  enlightened  to  know  of  a  friend  better  10 
adapted  for  eminent  station,  and  especially  better 
adapted  to  please  a  lovely  lady;  could  these  high- 
bred English  women  but  be  taught  to  conceive  an- 
other idea  of  manliness  than  the  formal  carved-in- 
wood  idol  of  their  national  worship!  15 

Dr.  Corney  breakfasted  very  early,  without  see- 
ing Vernon.  He  was  off  to  a  patient  while  the  first 
lark  of  the  morning  caroled  above,  and  the  business 
of  the  day,  not  yet  fallen  upon  men  in  the  shape  of 
cloud,  was  happily  intermixed  with  nature's  hues  20 
and  pipings.  Turning  off  the  high-road  up  a  green 
lane,  an  hour  later,  he  beheld  a  youngster  prying 
into  a  hedge  head  and  arms,  by  the  peculiar  strenu- 
ous twist  of  whose  hinder  parts,  indicative  of  a 
frame  plunged  on  the  pursuit  in  hand,  he  clearly  25 
distinguished  young  Crossjay.  Out  came  eggs. 
The  doctor  pulled  up. 

"What  bird?"  he  bellowed. 

"  Yellowhammer,"  Crossjay  yelled  back. 

"  Now,  sir,  you'll  drop  a  couple  of  those  eggs  in  30 
the  nest." 

"  Don't  order  me,"  Crossjay  was  retorting. 
"  Oh,  it's  you.  Dr.  Corney.  Good-morning.  I 
said  that,  because  I  always  do  drop  a  couple  back. 


THE   DISCOVERY  OF  A    SECRET.  m 

I  promised  Mr.  Whitford  I  would,  and  Miss  Mid- 
dleton  too." 

"Had  breakfast?" 

"  Not  yet." 
5      "Not  hungry?" 

"  I  should  be  if  I  thought  about  it." 

"  Jump  up." 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  not,  Doctor  Corney." 

"  And  you'll  just  do  what  Doctor  Corney  tells 
lo  you ;  and  set  your  mind  on  rashers  of  curly  fat  bacon 
and  sweetly  smoking  coffee,  toast,  hot  cakes,  mar- 
malade, and  damson  jam.  Wide  go  the  fellow's 
nostrils,  and  there's  water  at  the  dimples  of  his 
mouth!  Up,  my  man." 
15  Crossjay  jumped  up  beside  the  doctor,  who  re- 
marked, as  he  touched  his  horse:  "  I  don't  want  a 
man  this  morning,  though  I'll  enlist  you  in  my  serv- 
ice if  I  do.     You're  fond  of  Miss  Middleton?" 

Instead  of  answering,  Crossjay  heaved  a  sigli  of 
20  love  that  bears  a  burden. 

"  And  so  am  I,"  pursued  the  doctor.  "  You'll 
have  to  put  up  with  a  rival.  It's  worse  than  fond: 
I'm  in  love  with  her.     How  do  you  like  that?  " 

"  I  don't  mind  how  many  hve  her,"  said  Cross- 
25  jay. 

"  You're  worthy  of  a  gratuitous  breakfast  in  the 
front  parlor  of  the  best  hotel  of  the  place  they  call 
Arcadia.     And  how  about  your  bed  last  night?  " 

"  Pretty  middling." 
30     "  Hard, was  it, where  the  bones  haven't  cushion?" 

"  I  don't  care  for  bed.  A  couple  of  hours,  and 
that's  enough  for  me." 

"  But  you're  fond  of  Miss  Middleton  anyhow,  and 
that's  a  virtue." 


112  NARRATION. 

To  his  great  surprise,  Dr.  Comey  beheld  two  big 
round  tears  force  their  way  out  of  this  tough  young- 
ster's eyes,  and  all  the  while  the  boy's  face  was 
proud. 

Crossjay  said,  when  he  could  trust  himself  to  dis-  5 
join  his  lips:  "  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Whitford." 

"  Have  you  got  news  for  him?  " 

"  I've  something  to  ask  him.  It's  about  what  I 
ought  to  do." 

"  Then,  my  boy,  you  have  the  right  name  ad-  lo 
dressed  in  the  wrong  direction;  for  I  found  you 
turning  your  shoulders  on  Mr.  Whitford.  And  he 
has  been  out  of  his  bed  hunting  you  all  the  unholy 
night  you've  made  it  for  him.  That's  melancholy. 
What  do  you  say  to  asking  my  advice?  "  15 

Crossjay  sighed.  "  I  can't  speak  to  anybody  but 
Mr.  Whitford." 

"  And  you're  hot  to  speak  to  him?  " 

"  I  want  to." 

"  And   I   found   you   running  away   from   him.  20 
You're  a  curiosity,  Mr.  Crossjay  Patterne." 

"Ah!  so'd  anybody  be  who  knew  as  much  as  I 
do,"  said  Crossjay,  with  a  sober  sadness  that  caused 
the  doctor  to  treat  him  seriously. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  said,  "  Mr.  Whitford  is  beating 25 
the  country  for  you.     My  best  plan  will  be  to  drive 
you  to  the  Hall." 

"  I'd  rather  not  go  to  the  Hall,"  Crossjay  spoke 
resolutely. 

"  You  won't  see  Miss  Middleton  anywhere  but  at  30 
the  Hall." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  Miss  Middleton,  if  I  can't 
be  a  bit  of  use  to  her." 

"  No  danger  threatening  the  lady,  is  there?  " 


THE  DISCOVERY  OF  A    SECRET.  113 

Cross  jay  treated  the  question  as  if  it  had  not  been 
put. 

"  Now,  tell  me,"  said  Dr.  Corney,  "  would  there  be 
a  chance  for  me,  supposing  Miss  Middleton  were 
i  disengaged?  " 

The  answer  was  easy.     "  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't." 

"And  why,  sir,  are  you  so  cocksure?" 

There  was  no  saying;  but  the  doctor  pressed  for 
it,  and  at  last  Crossjay  gave  his  opinion  that  she 
10  would  take  Mr.  Whitford. 

The  doctor  asked  why;  and  Crossjay  said  it  was 
because  Mr.  Whitford  was  the  best  man  in  the 
world.  To  which,  with  a  lusty  "  Amen  to  that," 
Dr.  Corney  remarked :  "  I  should  have  fancied 
15  Colonel  de  Craye  would  have  had  the  first  chance; 
he's  more  of  a  lady's  man." 

Crossjay  surprised  him  again  by  petulantly  say- 
ing: "  Don't." 

The  boy  added :  "  I  don't  want  to  talk,  except 
20  about  birds  and  things.  What  a  jolly  morning  it 
is!  I  saw  the  sun  rise.  No  rain  to-day.  You're 
right  about  hungry.  Dr.  Corney !  " 

The  kindly  little  man  swung  his  whip.  Crossjay 
informed  him  of  his  disgrace  at  the  Hall,  and  of 
25  every  incident  connected  with  it,  from  the  tramp  to 
the  baronet,  save  Miss  Middleton's  adventure  and 
the  night  scene  in  the  drawing-room.  A  strong 
smell  of  something  left  out  struck  Dr.  Corney,  and 
he  said:  "  You'll  not  let  Miss  Middleton  know  of  my 
30  affection.  After  all,  it's  only  a  little  bit  of  love. 
But,  as  Patrick  said  to  Kathleen,  when  she  owned 
to  such  a  little  bit,  '  That's  the  best  bit  of  all ! '  and 
he  was  as  right  as  I  am  about  hungry." 

Crpssjay  scorned  to  talk  of  loving,  he  declared. 


114  NARRATION. 

"  I  never  tell  Miss  Middleton  what  I  feel.     Why, 
there's  Miss  Dale's  cottage!  " 

"  It's  nearer  to  your  empty  inside  than  my  man- 
sion," said  the  doctor,  "  and  we'll  stop  just  to  inquire 
whether  a  bed's  to  be  had  for  you  there  to-night,  5 
and  if  not,  I'll  have  you  with  me,  and  bottle  you, 
and  exhibit  you,  for  you're  a  rare  specimen. 
Breakfast  you  may  count  on  from  Mr.  Dale.  I  spy 
a  gentleman." 

"  It's  Colonel  de  Craye."  10 

"  Come  after  news  of  you." 

"I  wonder!" 

"  Miss  Middleton  sends  him ;  of  course  she  does." 

Crossjay  turned  his  full  face  to  the  doctor.  "  I 
haven't  seen  her  for  such  a  long  time!  But  he  saw  15 
me  last  night,  and  he  might  have  told  her  that,  if 
she's  anxious.  Good-morning,  colonel.  I've  had 
a  good  walk,  and  a  capital  drive,  and  I'm  as  hungry 
as  the  boat's  crew  of  Captain  Bligh." 

He  jumped  down.  20 

The  colonel  and  the  doctor  saluted,  smiling. 

"  I've  rung  the  bell,"  said  De  Craye. 

A  maid  came  to  the  gate,  and  upon  her  steps  ap- 
peared Miss  Dale,  who  flung  herself  at  Crossjay, 
mingling  kisses  and  reproaches.  She  scarcely  25 
raised  her  face  to  the  colonel  more  than  to  reply  to 
his  greeting,  and  excuse  the  hungry  boy  for  hurry- 
ing indoors  to  breakfast. 

"  I'll  wait,"  said  De  Craye.     He  had  seen  that 
she  was  paler  than  usual.     So  had  Dr.  Corney;  and  30 
the  doctor  called   to   her  concerning  her  father's 
health.     She  reported  that  he  had  not  yet  risen,  and 
took  Crossjay  to  herself. 

"That's  well,"  said  the  doctor,   "if  the  invalid 


THE  DISCOVERY  OF  A    SECRET.  I15 

sleeps  long.  The  lady  is  not  looking-  so  well,  though. 
But  ladies  vary;  they  show  the  mind  on  the  counte- 
nance, for  want  of  the  punching  we  meet  with  to 
conceal  it;  they're  like  military  flags  for  a  funeral  or 
5  a  gala;  one  day  furled,  and  next  day  streaming. 
Men  are  ships'  figure-heads,  about  the  same  for  a 
storm  or  a  calm,  and  not  too  handsome,  thanks  to  the 
ocean.  It's  an  age  since  we  encountered  last,  col- 
onel: on  board  the  Dublin  boat,  I  recollect,  and  a 
10  night  it  was !  " 

"  I  recollect  that  you  set  me  on  my  legs,  doctor." 
"Ah!  and  you'll  please  to  notify  that  Corney's 
no  quack  at  sea,  by  favor  of  the  monks  of  the  Char- 
treuse, whose  elixir  has  power  to  still  the  waves. 
15  And  we  hear  that  miracles  are  done  with!" 

"  Roll  a  physician  and  a  monk  together,  doctor!  " 

"  True :    it    '11    be    a    miracle    if    they  combine. 

Though  the  cure  of  the  soul  is  often  the  entire  and 

total    cure    of    the    body;    and     it's     maliciously 

20  said   that  the  body   given   over  to   our   treatment 

is  a  signal  to  set  the  soul  flying.     Well,  perhaps  we 

do  manage  somehow  to  work  in  common,  without 

sticking.     He  did  that  night.     By  the  way,  colonel, 

that  boy  has  a  trifle  on  his  mind." 

25      "  I  suppose  he  has  been  worrying  a  farmer  or  a 

gamekeeper." 

"  Try    him.     You'll    find    him    tight.     He's    got 
Miss  Middleton  on  the  brain.     There's  a  bit  of  a  se- 
cret; and  he's  not  so  cheerful  about  it." 
30     "  We'll  see,"  said  the  colonel. 

Dr.  Corney  nodded.  "I  have  to  visit  my  patient 
here  presently.  I'm  too  early  for  him ;  so  I'll  make 
a  call  or  two  on  the  lame  birds  that  are  up,'  he  re- 
marked, and  drove  away. 


Il6  NARRATION. 

De  Craye  strolled  through  the  garden.  He  was 
a  gentleman  of  those  actively  perceptive  wits  which, 
if  ever  they  reflect,  do  so  by  hops  and  jumps:  upon 
some  dancing  mirror  within,  we  may  fancy.  He 
penetrated  a  plot  in  a  flash;  and  in  a  flash  he  formed  5 
one;  but  in  both  cases,  it  was  after  long  hovering 
and  not  overeager  deliberation,  by  the  patient  exer- 
cise of  his  quick  perceptives.  The  fact  that  Cross- 
jay  was  considered  to  have  Miss  Middleton  on  the 
brain,  threw  a  series  of  images  of  everything  relat- 10 
ing  to  Crossjay  for  the  last  forty  hours  into  relief 
before  him;  and  as  he  did  not  in  the  slightest  degree 
speculate  on  any  one  of  them,  but  merely  shifted 
and  surveyed  them,  the  falcon  that  he  was  in  spirit 
as  well  as  in  his  handsome  face  leisurely  allowed  his  15 
instinct  to  direct  him  where  to  strike.  A  reflective 
disposition  has  this  danger  in  action,  that  it  com- 
monly precipitates  conjecture  for  the  purpose  of 
working  upon  probabilities  with  the  methods  and 
in  the  tracks  to  which  it  is  accustomed;  and  to  con- 20 
jecture  rashly  is  to  play  into  the  puzzles  of  the  maze. 
He  who  can  watch  circling  above  it  awhile,  quietly 
viewing,  and  collecting  in  his  eye,  gathers  matter 
that  makes  the  secret  thing  discourse  to  the  brain 
by  weight  and  balance;  he  will  get  either  the  right 25 
clew  or  none;  more  frequently  none;  but  he  will  es- 
cape the  entanglement  of  his  own  cleverness,  he  will 
always  be  nearer  to  the  enigma  than  the  guesser  or 
the  calculator,  and  he  will  retain  a  breadth  of  vis- 
ion forfeited  by  them.  He  must,  however,  to  have  30 
his  chance  of  success,  be  actually  besides  calmly 
perceptive,  a  reader  of  features,  audacious  at  the 
proper  moment. 

De  Craye  wished  to  look  at  Miss  Dale.    She  had 


THE   DISCOVERY   OF  A    SECRET.  1 1? 

returned  home  very  suddenly,  not,  as  it  appeared, 
owing  to  her  father's  illness;  and  he  remembered  a 
redness  of  her  eyelids  when  he  passed  her  on  the 
corridor  one  night.  She  sent  Crossjay  out  to  him 
5  as  soon  as  the  boy  was  well  filled.  He  sent  Cross- 
jay  back  with  a  request.  She  did  not  yield  to  it  im- 
mediately. She  stepped  to  the  front  door  reluc- 
tantly, and  seemed  disconcerted.  De  Craye  begged 
for  a  message  to  Miss  Middleton.  There  was  none 
loto  give.  He  persisted.  But  there  was  really  none 
at  present,  she  said. 

"  You  won't  intrust  me  with  the  smallest  word?  " 
said  he,  and  set  her  visibly  thinking  whether  she 
could  dispatch  a  word.     She  could  not;  she  had  no 
15  heart  for  messages. 

"  I  shall  see  her  in  a  day  or  two.  Colonel  de 
Craye." 

"  She  will  miss  you  severely." 

"  We  shall  soon  meet." 
20      "And  poor  Willoughby!  " 

Laetitia  colored  and  stood  silent. 

A  butterfly  of  some  rarity  allured  Crossjay. 

"  I  fear  he  has  been  doing  mischief,"  she  said. 
"  I  cannot  get  him  to  look  at  me." 
25      "  His  appetite  is  good?" 

"  Very  good  indeed." 

De  Craye  nodded.  A  boy  with  a  noble  appetite 
is  never  a  hopeless  lock. 

The  colonel  and  Crossjay  lounged  over  the  gar- 
30  den. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  colonel,  "  we'll  see  if  we 
can't  arrange  a  meeting  between  you  and  Miss  Mid- 
dleton. You're  a  lucky  fellow,  for  she's  always 
thinking  of  you." 


Il8  NARRATION. 

"  I  know  I'm  always  thinking  of  her,"  said  Cross- 
jay. 

"  If  ever  you're  in  a  scrape,  she's  the  person  you 
must  go  to." 

"  Yes,  if  I  know  where  she  is!  "  5 

"  Why,  generally  she'll  be  at  the  Hall." 

There  was  no  reply;  Crossjay's  dreadful  secret 
jumped  to  his  throat.  He  certainly  was  a  weaker 
lock  for  being  lull  of  breakfast." 

"  I    want   to    see    Mr.    Whitford    so   much,"    he  lo 
said. 

"  Something  to  tell  him?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do:  I  don't  understand 
it!  "    The  secret  wriggled  to  his  mouth.     He  swal- 
lowed it  down.     "  Yes,  I  want  to  talk  to  Mr.  Whit- 15 
ford." 

"  He's  another  of  Miss  Middleton's  friends." 

"  I  know  he  is.     He's  true  steel." 

"  We're  all  her  friends,  Crossjay.     I  flatter  my- 
self I'm  a  Toledo  when  I'm  wanted.     How  long  had  20 
you  been  in  the  house  last  night  before  you  ran  into 
me?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir;  I  fell  asleep  for  some  time, 
and  then  I  woke " 

"  Where  did  you  find  )'ourself  ?  "  25 

"  I  was  in  the  drawing  room." 

"  Come,  Crossjay,  you're  not  a  fellow  to  be 
scared  by  ghosts.  You  looked  it  when  you  made  a 
dash  at  my  midriff." 

"  I  don't  believe  there  are  such  things.     Do  you,  30 
colonel?     You  can't!" 

"There's  no  saying.  We'll  hope  not;  for  it 
wouldn't  be  fair  fighting.  A  man  with  a  ghost  to 
back  him  'd  beat  anv  ten.     We  couldn't  box  him  or 


THE  DISCOVERY  OF  A    SECRET.  119 

play  cards,  or  stand  a  chance  with  him  as  a  rival  in 
love.     Did  you,  now,  catch  a  sight  of  a  ghost?  " 

"They  weren't  ghosts!  "     Crossjay  said  what  he 
was  sure  of,  and  his  voice  pronounced  his  convic- 
5  tion. 

"  I  doubt  whether  Miss  Middleton  is  particularly 
happy,"  remarked  the  colonel. 

"Why?" 

"  Why,  you  upset  her,  you  know,  now  and  then." 
lo     The  boy  swelled.     "  I'd  do — I'd  go — I  wouldn't 

have  her  unhappy It's  that!  that's  it!     And  I 

don't  know  what  I  ought  to  do.     I  wish  I  could 
see  Mr.  Whitford." 

"  You  get  into  such  headlong  scrapes,  my  lad." 
15      "  I  wasn't  in  any  scrape  yesterday." 

"  So  you  made  yourself  up  a  comfortable  bed  in 
the  drawing  room?  Luckily  Sir  Willoughby  didn't 
see  you." 

"He  didn't,  though!" 
20     "A  close  shave,  was  it?" 

"  I  was  under  a  covering  of  something  silk." 

"  He  woke  you?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  did.     I  heard  him." 

"  Talking?  " 
25      "  He  was  talking." 

"  What!  talking  to  himself?  " 

"  No." 

The  secret  threatened  Crossjay  to  be  out  or  suffo- 
cate him. 
30     De  Craye  gave  him  a  respite. 

"  You  like  Sir  Willoughby,  don't  you?  " 

Crossjay  produced  a  still-born  afifirmative. 

"He's  kind  to  you,"  said  the  colonel;  "he'll  set 
you  up  and  look  after  your  interests." 


I20  NARRATION. 

"  Yes,  I  like  him,"  said  Crossjay,  with  his  cus- 
tomary rapidity  in  touching  the  subject;  "  I  like 
him;  he's  kind  and  all  that,  and  tips  and  plays  with 
you,  and  all  that;  but  I  never  can  make  out  why  he 
wouldn't  see  my  father  when  my  father  came  here  5 
to  see  him  ten  miles,  and  had  to  walk  back  ten  miles 
in  the  rain,  to  go  by  rail  a  long  way,  down  home,  as 
far  as  Devonport,  because  Sir  Willoughby  wouldn't 
see  him,  though  he  was  at  home,  my  father  saw. 
We  all  thought  it  so  odd;  and  my  father  wouldn't  10 
let  us  talk  much  about  it.  My  father's  a  very  brave 
man." 

"  Captain  Patterne  is  as  brave  a  man  as  ever 
lived,"  said  De  Craye. 

*'  I'm  positive  you'd  like  him,  colonel."  15 

"  I  know  of  his  deeds,  and  I  admire  him,  and 
that's  a  good  step  to  liking." 

He  warmed  the  boy's  thoughts  of  his  father. 

"  Because,  what  they  say  at  home  is,  a  little  bread 
and  cheese,  and  a  glass  of  ale,  and  a  rest,  to  a  poor  20 
man — lots  of  great  houses  will  give  you  that,  and  we 
wouldn't  have  asked  for  more  than  that.  My  sis- 
ters say  they  think  Sir  Willoughby  must  be  selfish. 
He's  awfully  proud;  and  perhaps  it  was  because  my 
father  wasn't  dressed  well  enough.  But  what  can  25 
we  do?  We're  very  poor  at  home,  and  lots  of  us, 
and  all  hungry.  My  father  says  he  isn't  paid  very 
well  for  his  services  to  the  Government.  He's  only 
a  marine." 

"  He's  a  hero!  "  said  De  Craye.  3° 

"  He  came  home  very  tired,  with  a  cold,  and  had 
a  doctor.  But  Sir  Willoughby  did  send  him  money, 
and  mother  wished  to  send  it  back,  and  my  father 
said  she  was  not  like  a  woman — with  our  big  fam- 


THE  DISCOVERY  OF  A    SECRET.  12 1 

ily.     He  said  he  thought  Sir  Willoughby  an  ex- 
traordinary man." 

*'  Not  at  all ;  very  common ;  indigenous,"  said  De 
Craye.  "  The  art  of  cutting  is  one  of  the  branches 
5  of  a  polite  education  in  this  country,  and  you'll  have 
to  learn  it,  if  you  expect  to  be  looked  on  as  a  gen- 
tleman and  a  Patterne,  my  boy.  I  begin  to  see  how 
it  is  Miss  Middleton  takes  to  you  so.  Follow  her 
directions.  But  I  hope  you  did  not  listen  to  a  pri- 
lovate  conversation.  Miss  Middleton  would  not  ap- 
prove of  that." 

"  Colonel  de  Craye,  how  could  I  help  myself?     I 
heard  a  lot  before  I  knew  what  it  was." 

—  The  Egoist. 

Notes. — This  narrative  is  introduced,  not  for  its  structure, 

15  but  for  its  method  of  character-drawing.  Since  a  tree  is 
known  by  its  fruits  and  a  man  by  his  deeds,  the  most  vivid 
of  all  methods  of  characterization  is  stage-acting,  and 
next  to  it  stage-dialogue.  Mr.  Marion  Crawford  has 
maintained  that  the  business  of  fictitious  narrative  is  to 

20  imitate  the  effects  of  the  stage  ;  that  the  novel  is  properly 
a  sort  of  pocket-theater.  This  means  that  a  story  should 
have  much  action,  that  this  should  grow  out  of  and  reveal 
character,  that  the  dialogue  should  serve  a  similar  purpose, 
and  that  the  descriptive  and  expository  parts  of  the  story 

25  should  amount  to  no  more  than  stage-directions.  Modern 
novelists  differ  on  the  last  point.  In  the  works  of  Tolstoi 
and  Turgenieff  the  digressive,  expository  comment  is 
scanty  ;  in  those  of  George  Eliot  and  Mr.  Henry  James  it 
is  over-abundant.     The  passage   from   Mr.  Meredith   has 

30  some  action  and  much  dramatic  dialogue  ;  but  it  has  also  a 
large  share  of  stage-directions  in  the  form  of  descriptive 
narration  and  of  analysis.  Some  of  the  time  the  dialogue 
is  printed  almost  as  in  a  play,  or  even  without  assignment 
to  the  respective  speakers.     Sometimes,  to  flash  a  light  on 

35  character  or  really  to  advance  the  story,  there  is  cotnment 


»22  NARRATION. 

in  soliction — little  phrases  that  say  much.  At  other  times 
there  are  whole  paragraphs  of  psychological  analysis, 
cotnjnent  in  bulk,  almost  to  the  degree  of  digression. 
When  these  paragraphs  are  brilliant  we  enjoy  them,  but 
comment  in  bulk  is  dangerous  work  for  any  save  the  great. 
Its  true  province  is  to  expose  mental  states  which  are  not 
readily  symbolized  in  action  or  dialogue.  Such  states 
there  undoubtedly  are,  and  that  is  why  stage-effects  are  so 
limited  and  t^ie  analytic  novel  so  unfettered  ;  yet  Shaks- 
pere  managed  with  action  and  dialogue  merely. 


32— ZTbe  Deatb  of  tbe  Daupbin.' 

ALPHONSE    DAUDET. 

The  little  Dauphin  is  ill;  the  little  Dauphin  is  dy- 
ing. In  all  the  churches  of  the  kingdom  the  Holy 
Sacrament  remains  exposed  night  and  day,  and 
great  tapers  burn,  for  the  recovery  of  the  royal 
child.  The  streets  of  the  old  capital  are  sad  and  15 
silent,  the  bells  ring  no  more,  the  carriages  slacken 
their  pace.  In  the  neighborhood  of  the  palace  the 
curious  townspeople  gaze  through  the  railings  upon 
the  beadles  with  gilded  paunches,  who  converse  in 
the  courts  and  put  on  important  airs.  20 

All  the  castle  is  in  a  flutter.  Chamberlains  and 
major-domos  run  up  and  down  the  marble  stair- 
ways. The  galleries  are  full  of  pages  and  of  cour- 
tiers in  silken  apparel,  who  hurry  from  one  group 
to  another,  begging  in  low  tones  for  news.  Upon  25 
the  wide  perrons  the  maids  of  honor,  in  tears-  ex- 
change low  courtesies  and  wipe  their  eyes  with 
daintily  embroidered  handkerchiefs. 

'Reprinted,   by  permission  of  the  publishers,   from   "Pastels  ip 
Prose,"  copyright,  1890,  by  liarper  &  Brothers. 


THE  DEATH  OF    THE   DAUPHIN.  123 

A  large  assemblage  of  robed  physicians  has  gath- 
ered in  the  Orangery.  They  can  be  seen  through 
the  panes  waving  their  long  black  sleeves  and  in- 
clining their  periwigs  with  professional  gestures. 
5  The  governor  and  the  equerry  of  the  little  Dauphin 
walk  up  and  down  before  the  door  awaiting  the  de- 
cision of  the  Faculty.  Scullions  pass  by  without 
saluting  them.  The  equerry  swears  like  a  pagan; 
the  governor  quotes  verses  from  Horace. 

10  And  meanwhile,  over  there,  in  the  direction  of  the 
stables,  is  heard  a  long  and  plaintive  neighing;  it  is 
the  little  Dauphin's  sorrel,  forgotten  by  the  hostlers, 
and  calling  sadly  before  his  empty  manger. 

And    the    King?     Where    is    his    Highness    the 

^5  King?  The  King  has  locked  himself  up  in  a  room 
at  the  other  end  of  the  castle.  Majesties  do  not  like 
to  be  seen  weeping.  For  the  Queen  it  is  different. 
Sitting  by  the  bedside  of  the  little  Dauphin,  she 
bows  her  fair  face,  bathed  in  tears,  and  sobs  very 

20  loudly  before  everybody,  like  a  mere  draper's 
wife. 

On  the  bed  embroidered  with  lace  the  little  Dau- 
phin, whiter  than  the  pillows  on  which  he  is  ex- 
tended, lies  with  closed  eyes.     They  think  that  he  is 

7.5  asleep;  but  no,  the  little  Dauphin  is  not  asleep.  He 
turns  towards  his  mother,  and  seeing  her  tears,  he 
asks: 

"  Madame  la  Reine,  why  do  you  weep?  Do  you 
really  believe  that  I  am  going  to  die?  " 

30  The  Queen  tries  to  answer.  Sobs  prevent  her 
from  speaking. 

"  Do  not  weep,  Madame  la  Reine.  You  forget 
that  I  am  the  Dauphin,  and  that  Dauphins  cannot 
die  thus." 


124  NARRATION. 

The  Queen  sobs  more  violently,  and  the  little 
Dauphin  begins  to  feel  frightened. 

"  Holloa !  "  says  he,  "  I  do  not  want  Death  to  come 
and  take  me  away,  and  I  know  how  to  prevent  him 
from  coming  here.  Order  up  on  the  spot  forty  of  5 
the  strongest  lansquenets  to  keep  guard  around  our 
bed!  Have  a  hundred  big  cannons  watch  day  and 
night,  with  lighted  fuses,  under  our  windows!  And 
woe  to  Death  if  he  dares  to  come  near  us!  " 

In  order  to  humor  the  royal  child,  the  Queen  10 
makes  a  sign.  On  the  spot  the  great  cannons  are 
heard  rolling  in  the  courts,  and  forty  tall  lansque- 
nets, with  halberds  in  their  fists,  draw  up  around  the 
room.  They  are  all  veterans,  with  grizzly  mus- 
taches. The  little  Dauphin  claps  his  hands  on  see- 15 
ing  them.     He  recognizes  one,  and  calls : 

"  Lorrain !  Lorrain !  " 

The  veteran  makes  a  step  towards  the  bed. 

"  I  love  you  well,  my  old  Lorrain.     Let  me  see 
your  big  sword.     If  Death  wants  to  fetch  me,  you  20 
will  kill  him,  won't  you?" 

Lorrain  answers: 

"  Yes,  Monseigneur." 

'And  two  great  tears  roll  down  his  tanned  cheeks. 

At  that  moment  the  chaplain  approaches  the  little  25 
Dauphin,    and    pointing   to   the   crucifix,    talks    to 
him    in    low    tones.     The    little    Dauphin    listens 
with    astonished    air;    then,    suddenly   interrupting 
him: 

"  I  understand  well  what  you  are  saying,  Mon-  30 
sieur  I'Abbe;   but   still,   couldn't    my   little   friend 
Beppo  die  in  my  place,  if  I  gave  him  plenty  of 
money?  " 

The  chaplain  continues  to  talk  to  him  in  low 


THE  DEATH  OF   THE  DAUPHIN.  1 25 

tones,  and  the  little  Dauphin  looks  more  and  more 
astonished. 

When  the  chaplain  has  finished,  the  little  Dau- 
phin resumes,  with  a  heavy  sigh : 
5  "  What  you  have  said  is  all  very  sad.  Monsieur 
I'Abbe ;  but  one  thing  consoles  me,  and  that  is  that 
up  there,  in  the  Paradise  of  the  stars,  I  shall  still  be 
the  Dauphin.  I  know  that  the  good  God  is  my 
cousin,  and  cannot  fail  to  treat  me  according  to  my 
10  rank." 

Then  he  adds,  turning  towards  his  mother: 

"  Bring  me  my  fairest  clothes,   my  doublet   of 
white  ermine,  and  my  pumps  of  velvet!     I  wish  to 
look  brave  to  the  angels,  and  to  enter  Paradise  in 
15  the  dress  of  a  Dauphin." 

A  third  time  the  chaplain  bends  over  the  little 
Dauphin,  and  talks  to  him  in  low  tones.  In  the 
midst  of  his  discourse  the  royal  child  interrupts  him 
angrily. 
20  "  Why,  then,"  he  cries,  "  to  be  Dauphin  is  noth- 
ing at  ail!" 

And  refusing  to  listen  to  anything  more,  the  lit- 
tle Dauphin  turns  towards  the  wall  and  weeps  bit- 
terly. 

25  Notes. — Clever  as  Mr.  George  Meredith's  method  o£ 
narrative  undeniably  is,  we  cannot  help  feeling  that 
Alphonse  Daudet's  in  this  pastel  is  distinctly  better. 
Daudet's  story  is  without  comment  ;  it  is  quite  without 
psychological  analysis,  beyond  the  one  harmless  generaliza- 

3otion  that  "  Majesties  do  not  like  to  be  seen  weeping."  In 
a  word,  Daudet's  method  is  here  pure  drama.  The 
material  and  purpose  are  of  course  simple,  not  complex 
like  Meredith's  ;  but  there  is  something  very  fine  in  the 
silent  eloquence  of  the  acts.     The  equerrj-  swears,  the 


126  NARRATION. 

governor  quotes  Horace  ;  you  may  draw  your  own  conclu- 
sions as  to  character  from  such  facts  existing  under  such 
circumstances.  The  queen  sobs  "like  a  mere  draper's 
wife,"  but  no  overt  moral  is  pointed  out.  The  royal  boy 
thinks  he  can  scare  away  death  by  a  bold  front  and  the  5 
help  of  his  lansquenets  ;  you  pity  the  brave  child  who  is 
about  to  go  into  the  great  darkness  alone,  and  your  pity  is 
not  interrupted  by  a  signboard  generalization  on  the  sad 
equality  of  men.  The  chaplain  talks  to  the  dying  child, 
and  you  know  what  he  says  only  by  the  little  Dauphin's  ic 
despairing  cry,  and  his  turning  toward  the  wall.  You  are 
enraged  at  the  thought  of  the  court  whose  worldliness 
is  to  blame  for  the  child's  awful  illusion,  and  for  his 
awful  disillusionment  z>?  extremis.  The  king  has  hid  him- 
self ;  well  he  may.  All  this  you  think  and  feel, — and  j - 
yet  Daudet  has  done  no  more  than  to  state  acts  and 
results  with  the  perfect  simplicity  which  is  the  flower 
of  art. 


CHAPTER  III. 

EXPOSITION. 

33.— JTbe  /IftetboD  of  Scientific  1[nv>estlgatlon.» 

THOMAS   HENRY    HUXLEY. 

The  method  of  scientific  investigation  is  nothing 
but  the  expression  of  the  necessary  mode  of  work- 
ing of  the  human  mind.  It  is  simply  the  mode  at 
which  all  phenomena  are  reasoned  about,  rendered 
5  precise  and  exact.  There  is  no  more  difference, 
but  there  is  just  the  same  kind  of  difference,  be- 
tween the  mental  operations  of  a  man  of  science  and 
those  of  an  ordinary  person,  as  there  is  between  the 
operations  and  methods  of  a  baker  or  of  a  butcher 

lo  weighing  out  his  goods  in  common  scales,  and  the 
operations  of  a  chemist  in  performing  a  difficult  and 
complex  analysis  by  means  of  his  balance  and  finely 
graduated  weights.  It  is  not  that  the  action  of  the 
scales  in  the  one  case,  and  the  balance  in  the  other, 

15  differ  in  the  principles  of  their  construction  or  man- 
ner of  working;  but  the  beam  of  one  is  set  on  an  in- 
finitely finer  axis  than  the  other,  and  of  course  turns 
by  the  addition  of  a  much  smaller  weight. 

You  will  understand  this  better,  perhaps,  if  I  give 

20  you  some  familiar  example.  You  have  all  heard  it 
repeated,  I  dare  say,  that  men  of  science  work  by 

>  Reprinted  from    "  Darwiniana,"  by  permission  of   Messrs.  D. 
Appleton  &  Co. 

I?7 


128  EXPOSITION. 

means  of  induction  and  deduction,  and  that  by  the 
help  of  these  operations,  they,  in  a  sort  of  sense, 
wring  from  Nature  certain  other  things,  which  are 
called  natural  laws,  and  causes,  and  that  out  of 
these,  by  some  cunning  skill  of  their  own,  they  build  5 
up  hypotheses  and  theories.  And  it  is  imagined  by 
many,  that  the  operations  of  the  common  mind  can 
be  by  no  means  compared  with  these  processes,  and 
that  they  have  to  be  acquired  by  a  sort  of  special 
apprenticeship  to  the  craft.  To  hear  all  these  large  10 
words,  you  would  think  that  the  mind  of  a  man  of 
science  must  be  constituted  differently  from  that  of 
his  fellow  men ;  but  if  you  will  not  be  frightened  by 
terms,  you  will  discover  that  you  are  quite  wrong, 
and  that  all  these  terrible  apparatus  are  being  used  15 
by  yourselves  every  day  and  every  hour  of  your 
lives. 

There    is    a    well-known    incident    in    one    of 
Moliere's  plays,  where  the  author  makes  the  hero 
express  unbounded  delight  on  being  told  that  he  20 
had  been  talking  prose  during  the  whole  of  his 
life.     In  the  same  way,  I  trust,  that  you  will  take 
comfort,  and  be  delighted  with  yourselves,  on  the 
discovery  that  you  have  been  acting  on  the  prin- 
ciples of  inductive  and  deductive  philosophy  during  25 
the  same  period.     Probably  there  is  not  one  here 
who  has  not  in  the  course  of  the  day  had  occasion 
to  set  in  motion  a  complex  train  of  reasoning,  of 
the  very  same  kind,  though  differing  of  course  in 
degree,  as  that  which  a  scientific  man  goes  through  30 
in  tracing  the  causes  of  natural  phenomena. 

A  very  trivial  circumstance  will  serve  to  exem- 
plify this.  Suppose  you  go  into  a  fruiterer's  shop, 
wanting  an  apple, — you  take  up  one,  and,  on  bit- 


ME  THOD  OF  SCIENTIFIC  IN  VE  STIC  A  TION      1 2  9 

ing  it,  you  find  it  is  sour;  you  look  at  it,  and  see  that 
it  is  hard  and  green.  You  take  up  another  one, 
and  that  too  is  hard,  green,  and  sour.  The  shop- 
man offers  you  a  third;  but,  before  biting  it,  you  ex- 
5  amine  it,  and  find  that  it  is  hard  and  green,  and  you 
immediately  say  that  you  will  not  have  it,  as  it 
must  be  sour,  like  those  that  you  have  already 
tried. 

Nothing  can  be  more  simple  than  that,  you  think ; 

lo  but  if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  analyse  and  trace 
out  into  its  logical  elements  what  has  been  done  by 
the  mind,  you  will  be  greatly  surprised.  In  the  first 
place,  you  have  performed  the  operation  of  induc- 
tion.    You  found  that,  in  two  experiences,  hardness 

15  and  greenness  in  apples  went  together  with  sour- 
ness. It  was  so  in  the  first  case,  and  it  was 
confirmed  by  the  second.  True,  it  is  a  very  small 
basis,  but  still  it  is  enough  to  make  an  induction 
from;  you  generalize  the  facts,  and  you  expect  to 

20  find  sourness  in  apples  where  you  get  hardness 
and  greenness.  You  found  upon  that  a  general 
law,  that  all  hard  and  green  apples  are  sour;  and 
that,  so  far  as  it  goes,  is  a  perfect  induction.  Well, 
having  got  your  natural  law  in  this  way,  when  you 

25  are  offered  another  apple  which  you  find  is  hard 
and  green,  you  say,  "  All  hard  and  green  apples  are 
sour;  this  apple  is  hard  and  green,  therefore  this 
apple  is  sour."  That  train  of  reasoning  is  what 
logicians  call  a  syllogism,  and  has  all  its  various 

30  parts  and  terms, — its  major  premiss,  its  minor 
premiss,  and  its  conclusion.  And,  by  the  help  of 
further  reasoning,  which,  if  drawn  out,  would  have 
to  be  exhibited  in  two  or  three  other  syllogisms, 
you  arrive  at  your  final  determination,  "  I  will  not 


X30  EXPOSITION. 

have  that  apple."  So  that,  you  see,  you  have,  in  the 
first  place,  established  a  law  by  induction,  arid  upon 
that  you  have  founded  a  deduction,  and  rea- 
.  soned  out  the  special  conclusion  of  the  particular 
case.  Well  now,  suppose,  having  got  your  law,  5 
that  at  some  time  afterwards,  you  are  discussing  the 
qualities  of  apples  with  a  friend:  you  will  say  to  him, 
"  It  is  a  very  curious  thing, — but  I  find  that  all  hard 
and  green  apples  are  sour!"  Your  friend  says  to 
you,  "  But  how  do  you  know  that?  "  You  at  onceio 
reply,  "  Oh,  because  I  have  tried  them  over  and 
over  again,  and  have  always  found  them  to  be  so." 
Well,  if  we  were  talking  science  instead  of  common 
sense,  we  should  call  that  an  experimental  verifica- 
tion. And,  if  still  opposed,  you  go  further,  and  15 
say,  "  I  have  heard  from  the  people  in  Somerset- 
shire and  Devonshire,  where  a  large  number  of  ap- 
ples are  grown,  that  they  have  observed  the  same 
thing.  It  is  also  found  to  be  the  case  in  Normandy, 
and  in  North  America.  In  short,  I  find  it  to  be  the  20 
universal  experience  of  mankind  wherever  attention 
has  been  directed  to  the  subject."  Whereupon, 
your  friend,  unless  he  is  a  very  unreasonable  man, 
agrees  with  you,  and  is  convinced  that  you  are  quite 
right  in  the  conclusion  you  have  drawn.  He  be-  25 
lieves,  although  perhaps  he  does  not  know  he  be- 
lieves it,  that  the  more  extensive  verifications  are, — 
that  the  more  frequently  experiments  have  been 
made,  and  results  of  the  same  kind  arrived  at, — 
that  the  more  varied  the  conditions  under  which  the  30 
same  results  are  attained,  the  more  certain  is  the 
ultimate  conclusion,  and  he  disputes  the  question  no 
further.  He  sees  that  the  experiment  has  been 
tried  under  all  sorts  of  conditions,  as  to  time,  place, 


METHOD  OF  SCIENTIFIC  INVESTIGA  TION.      13 1 

and  people,  with  the  same  result;  and  he  says  with 
you,  therefore,  that  the  law  you  have  laid  down 
must  be  a  good  one,  and  he  must  believe  it. 

In  science  we  do  the  same  thing; — the  philoso- 
5  pher  exercises  precisely  the  same  faculties,  though 
in  a  much  more  delicate  manner.  In  scientific  in- 
quiry it  becomes  a  matter  of  duty  to  expose  a  sup- 
posed law  to  every  possible  kind  of  verification,  and 
to  take  care,  moreover,  that  this  is  done  intention- 

loally,  and  not  left  to  a  mere  accident,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  apples.  And  in  science,  as  in  common  life, 
our  confidence  in  a  law  is  in  exact  proportion  to  the 
absence  of  variation  in  the  result  of  our  experi- 
mental verifications.     For  instance,  if  you  let  go 

15  your  grasp  of  an  article  you  may  have  in  your  hand, 
it  will  immediately  fall  to  the  ground.  That  is  a 
very  common  verification  of  one  of  the  best  estab- 
lished laws  of  nature — that  of  gravitation.  The 
method  by  which  men  of  science  establish  the  ex- 

zoistence  of  that  law  is  exactly  the  same  as  that  by 
which  we  have  established  the  trivial  proposition 
about  the  sourness  of  hard  and  green  apples.  But 
we  believe  it  in  such  an  extensive,  thorough,  and 
unhesitating  manner  because  the  universal  experi- 

25  ence  of  mankind  verifies  it,  and  we  can  verify  it 
ourselves  at  any  time;  and  that  is  the  strongest  pos- 
sible foundation  on  which  any  natural  law  can 
rest. 

So  much,  then,  by  way  of  proof  that  the  method  of 

30  establishing  laws  in  science  is  exactly  the  same  as 
that  pursued  in  common  life.  Let  us  now  turn  to 
another  matter  (though  really  it  is  but  another 
phase  of  the  same  question),  and  that  is,  the  method 
by  which,  from  the  relations  of  certain  phenomena, 


132  EXPOSITION. 

we  prove  that  some  stand  in  the  position  of  causes 
towards  the  others. 

I  want  to  put  the  case  clearly  before  you,  and  I 
will  therefore  show  you  what  I  mean  by  another 
familiar  example.     I  will  suppose  that  one  of  you,  5 
on  coming  down  in  the  morning  to  the  parlor  of 
your  house,  finds  that  a  tea-pot  and  some  spoons 
which  had  been  left  in  the  room  on  the  previous 
evening  are  gone, — the  window  is  open,  and  you 
observe  the  mark  of  a  dirty  hand  on  the  window- 10 
frame,  and  perhaps,  in  addition  to  that,  you  notice 
the  impress  of  a  hob-nailed  shoe  on  the  gravel  out- 
side.    All  these  phenomena  have  struck  your  atten- 
tion instantly,  and  before  two  seconds  have  passed 
you  say,  "  Oh,  somebody  has  broken  open  the  win- 15 
dow,  entered  the  room,  and  run  off  with  the  spoons 
and   the   tea-pot!"     That    speech    is    out   of   your 
mouth  in  a  moment.     And  you  will  probably  add, 
"  I  know  there  has;  I  am  quite  sure  of  it!  "     You 
mean  to  say  exactly  what  you  know;  but  in  reality 20 
you  are  giving  expression  to  what  is,  in  all  essen- 
tial particulars,  an  hypothesis.     You  do  not  know  it 
at    all;    it    is    nothing    but    an    hypothesis    rapidly 
framed  in  your  own  mind.     And  it  is  an  hypothesis 
founded  on  a  long  train  of  inductions  and  deduc-  25 
tions. 

What  are  those  inductions  and  deductions,  and 
how  have  you  got  at  this  hypothesis?  You  have 
observed,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  window  is  open; 
but  by  a  train  of  reasoning  involving  many  indue- 30 
tions  and  deductions,  you  have  probably  arrived 
long  before  at  the  general  law — and  a  very  good 
one  it  is — that  windows  do  not  open  of  themselves; 
and   you   therefore   conclude   that   something   has 


METHOD  OF  SCIENTIFIC  INVESTIGATION.      I33 

opened  the  window.  A  second  general  law  that 
you  have  arrived  at  in  the  same  way  is,  that  tea- 
pots and  spoons  do  not  go  out  of  a  window  sponta- 
neously, and  you  are  satisfied  that,  as  they  are  not 
5  now  where  you  left  them,  they  have  been  removed. 
In  the  third  place,  you  look  at  the  marks  on  the 
window-sill,  and  the  shoe-marks  outside,  and  you 
say  that  in  all  previous  experience  the  former  kind 
of  mark  has  never  been  produced  by  anything  else 
lobut  the  hand  of  a  human  being;  and  the  same  ex- 
perience shows  that  no  other  animal  but  man  at 
present  wears  shoes  with  hob-nails  in  them  such  as 
would  produce  the  marks  in  the  gravel.  I  do  not 
know,  even  if  we  could  discover  any  of  those  "  miss- 
is ing  links  "  that  are  talked  about,  that  they  would 
help  us  to  any  other  conclusion!  At  any  rate  the 
law  which  states  our  present  experience  is  strong 
enough  for  my  present  purpose.  You  next  reach 
the  conclusion  that,  as  these  kind  of  marks  have  not 
20  been  left  by  any  other  animal  than  men,  or  are  lia- 
ble to  be  formed  in  any  other  way  than  a  man's 
hand  and  shoe,  the  marks  in  question  have  been 
formed  by  a  man  in  that  way.  You  have,  further, 
a  general  law,  founded  on  observation  and  experi- 
35  ence,  and  that,  too,  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  a  very  uni- 
versal and  unimpeachable  one, — that  some  men  are 
thieves;  and  you  assume  at  once  from  all  these 
premisses — and  that  is  what  constitutes  your  hy- 
pothesis— that  the  man  who  made  the  marks  outside 
30 and  on  the  window-sill,  opened  the  window,  got  into 
the  room,  and  stole  your  tea-pot  and  spoons.  You 
have  now  arrived  at  a  vera  causa; — you  have  as- 
sumed a  cause  which,  it  is  plain,  is  competent  to 
produce   all   the   phenomena   you   have   observed, 


134  EXPOSITION. 

You  can  explain  all  these  phenomena  only  by  the 
hypothesis  of  a  thief.  But  that  is  a  hypothetical 
conclusion,  of  the  justice  of  which  you  have  no  ab- 
solute proof  at  all;  it  is  only  rendered  highly  proba- 
ble by  a  series  of  inductive  and  deductive  reason-  5 
ings. 

I  suppose  your  first  action,  assuming  that  you  are 
a  man  of  ordinary  common  sense,  and  that  you  have 
established  this  hypothesis  to  your  own  satisfaction, 
will  very  likely  be  to  go  off  for  the  police,  and  set  10 
them  on  the  track  of  the  burglar,  with  the  view  to 
the  recovery  of  your  property.  But  just  as  you  are 
starting  with  this  object,  some  person  comes  in, 
and  on  learning  what  you  are  about,  says,  "  My 
good  friend,  you  are  going  on  a  great  deal  too  fast.  15 
How  do  you  know  that  the  man  who  really  made 
the  marks  took  the  spoons?  It  might  have  been  a 
monkey  that  took  them,  and  the  man  may  have 
merely  looked  in  afterwacds."  You  would  proba- 
bly reply,  "  Well,  that  is  all  very  well,  but  you  see  20 
it  is  contrary  to  all  experience  of  the  way  tea-pots 
and  spoons  are  abstracted;  so  that,  at  any  rate,  your 
hypothesis  is  less  probable  than  mine."  While  you 
are  talking  the  thing  over  in  this  way,  another  friend 
arrives,  one  of  the  good  kind  of  people  that  I  was  25 
talking  of  a  little  while  ago.  And  he  might  say, 
"  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  you  are  certainly  going  on  a 
great  deal  too  fast.  You  are  most  presumptuous. 
You  admit  that  all  these  occurrences  took  place 
when  you  were  fast  asleep,  at  a  time  when  you  could  30 
not  possibly  have  known  anything  about  what  was 
taking  place.  How  do  you  know  that  the  laws  of 
Nature  are  not  suspended  during  the  night?  It 
may  be  that  there  has  been  some  kind  of  super- 


METHOD  OF  SCIENTIFIC  INVESTIGATION.      135 

natural  interference  in  this  case."  In  point  of  fact, 
he  declares  that  your  hypothesis  is  one  of  which  you 
cannot  at  all  demonstrate  the  truth,  and  that  you  are 
by  no  means  sure  that  the  laws  of  Nature  are  the 

5  same  when  you  are  asleep  as  when  you  are  awake. 

Well,  now,  you  cannot  at  the  moment  answer  that 

kind   of   reasoning.     You    feel   that   your   worthy 

friend  has  you  somewhat  at  a  disadvantage.     You 

will  feel  perfectly  convinced  in  your  own  mind,  how- 

10  ever,  that  you  are  quite  right,  and  you  say  to  him, 
*'  My  good  friend,  I  can  only  be  guided  by  the  natu- 
ral probabilities  of  the  case,  and  if  you  will  be  kind 
enough  to  stand  aside  and  permit  me  to  pass,  I 
will  go  and  fetch  the  police."     Well,  we  will  sup- 

15  pose  that  your  journey  is  successful,  and  that  by 
good  luck  you  meet  with  a  policeman;  that  eventu- 
ally the  burglar  is  found  with  your  property  on  his 
person,  and  the  marks  correspond  to  his  hand  and 
to  his  boots.     Probably  any  jury  would  consider 

2o  those  facts  a  very  good  experimental  verification  of 
your  hypothesis,  touching  the  cause  of  the  abnormal 
phenomena  observed  in  your  parlor,  and  would  act 
accordingly. 

Now,  in  this  supposititious  case,  I  have  taken  phe- 

25  nomena  of  a  very  common  kind,  in  order  that  you 
might  see  what  are  the  different  steps  in  an  ordi- 
nary process  of  reasoning,  if  you  will  only  take  the 
trouble  to  analyze  it  carefully.  All  the  operations 
I  have  described,  you  will  see,  are  involved  in  the 

30  mind  of  any  man  of  sense  in  leading  him  to  a  con- 
clusion as  to  the  course  he  should  take  in  order  to 
make  good  a  robbery  and  punish  the  offender.  I 
say  that  you  are  led,  in  that  case,  to  your  conclusion 
by  exactly  the  same  train  of  reasoning  as  that  which 


IS6  '  EXPOSITION. 

a  man  of  science  pursues  when  he  is  endeavoring 
to  discover  the  origin  and  laws  of  the  most  occult 
phenomena.  The  process  is,  and  always  must  be, 
the  same;  and  precisely  the  same  mode  of  reasoning 
was  employed  by  Newton  and  Laplace  in  their  en-  5 
deavors  to  discover  and  define  the  causes  of  the 
movements  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  as  you,  with 
your  own  common  sense,  would  employ  to  detect  a 
burglar.  The  only  difference  is,  that  the  nature  of 
the  inquiry  being  more  abstruse,  every  step  has  to  10 
be  most  carefully  watched,  so  that  there  may  not  be 
a  single  crack  or  flaw  in  your  hypothesis.  A  flaw 
or  crack  in  many  of  the  hypotheses  of  daily  life  may 
be  of  little  or  no  moment  as  affecting  the  general 
correctness  of  the  conclusions  at  which  we  may  ar- 15 
rive;  but,  in  a  scientific  inquiry,  a  fallacy,  great  or 
small,  is  always  of  importance,  and  is  sure  to  be  in 
the  long  run  constantly  productive  of  mischievous, 
if  not  fatal  results. 

Do  not  allow  yourselves  to  be  misled  by  the  com-  20 
mon  notion  that  an  hypothesis   is   untrustworthy 
simply   because   it   is   an   hypothesis.     It   is   often 
urged,  in  respect  to  some  scientific  conclusion,  that, 
after  all,  it  is  only  an  hypothesis.     But  what  more 
have  we  to  guide  us  in  nine-tenths  of  the  most  im-25 
portant  affairs  of  daily  life  than  hypotheses,  and 
often  very  ill-based  ones?     So  that  in  science,  where 
the  evidence  of  an  hypothesis  is  subjected  to  the  most 
rigid  examination,  we  may  rightly  pursue  the  same 
course.     You  may  have  hypotheses  and  hypotheses.  30 
A  man  may  say,  if  he  likes,  that  the  moon  is  made 
of  green  cheese:  that  is  an  hypothesis.     But  another 
man,  who  has  devoted  a  great  deal  of  time  and  at- 
tention to  the  subject,  and  availed  himself  of  the 


METHOD  OF  SCIENTIFIC  INVESTIGATION.      137 

most  powerful  telescopes  and  the  results  of  the  ob- 
servations of  others,  declares  that  in  his  opinion  it 
is  probably  composed  of  materials  very  similar  to 
those  of  which  our  own  earth  is  made  up:  and  that 
5  is  also  only  an  hypothesis.  But  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  there  is  an  enormous  difference  in  the  value  of 
the  two  hypotheses.  That  one  which  is  based  on 
sound  scientific  knowledge  is  sure  to  have  a  cor- 
responding value;  and  that  which  is  a  mere  hasty 

lo  random  guess  is  likely  to  have  but  little  value. 
Every  great  step  in  our  progress  in  discovering 
causes  has  been  made  in  exactly  the  same  way  as 
that  which  I  have  detailed  to  you.  A  person  ob- 
serving the  occurrence  of  certain  facts  and  phe- 

15  nomena  asks,  naturally  enough,  what  process,  what 
kind  of  operation  known  to  occur  in  Nature  applied 
to  the  particular  case,  will  unravel  and  explain  the 
mystery?  Hence  you  have  the  scientific  hypothe- 
sis; and  its  value  will  be  proportionate  to  the  care 

20  and  completeness  with  which  its  basis  had  been 
tested  and  verified.  It  is  in  these  matters  as  in  the 
commonest  affairs  of  practical  life:  the  guess  of  the 
fool  v/ill  be  folly,  while  the  guess  of  the  wise  man 
will  contain  wisdom.     In  all  cases,  you  see  that  the 

25  value  of  the  result  depends  on  the  patience  and  faith- 
fulness with  which  the  investigator  applies  to  his 
hypothesis  every  possible  kind  of  verification. 

Notes. — If,  roughly  speaking,  we  regard  exposition  as 
the  explanation  of  general  assertions,  the  merits  of  Hux- 
30  ley's  exposition  become  obvious.  This  passage  is  merely 
a  very  complete  and  lucid  explanation  of  a  single  thought, 
namely  that  "  The  method  of  scientific  investigation  is 
nothing  but  the  expression  of  the  necessary  mode  of  work- 
ing of  the  human  mind."    It  is  complete    because  the 


138  EXPOSITION. 

author  elaborates  first  one  and  then  a  second  illustration 
of  the  principle.  It  is  lucid  because  the  diction  is  simple, 
the  divisions  of  the  whole  subject  are  perfectly  sharp,  and 
the  two  illustrations  are  drawn  from  familiar  sources. 


34.— Eartb^TKHorms  an&  ^beir  jpunction.' 

CHARLES   DARWIN. 

Summary  of  the  part  which  worms  have  played  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world — Their  aid  in  the  disintegration  of 
rocks — In  the  denudation  of  the  land — In  the  preservation 
of  ancient  remains — In  the  preparation  of  the  soil  for  the 
growth  of  plants — Mental  powers  of  worms — Conclusion. 

Worms  have  played  a  more  important  part  in  the  5 
history  of  the  world  than  most  persons  would  at 
first  suppose.     In  almost  all  humid  countries  they 
are  extraordinarily  numerous,  and  for  their  size  pos- 
sess great  muscular  power.     In  many  parts  of  Eng- 
land a  weight  of  more  than  ten  tons  (10,516  kilo- 10 
grammes)  of  dry  earth  annually  passes  through  their 
bodies  and  is  brought  to  the  surface  on  each  acre 
of  land;  so  that  the  whole  superficial  bed  of  vege- 
table mold  passes  through  their  bodies  in  the  course 
of  every  few  years.     From  the  collapsing  of  the  old  15 
burrows  the  mold  is  in  constant  though  slow  move'- 
ment,  and  the  particles  composing  it  are  thus  rubbed 
together.     By  these  means  fresh  surfaces  are  con- 
tinually exposed  to  the  action  of  the  carbonic  acid 
in  the  soil,  and  of  the  humus-acids  which  appear  to  20 
to  be  still  more  efficient  in  the  decomposition  of 
rocks.     Q^ie  generation  of  the  humus-acids  is  prob- 

*  Reprinted  from  "  Vegetable  Mould  and  Earth- Worms,"  by  per- 
mission of  Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 


EARTH-WORMS  AND    THEIR   FUNCTION.      139 

ably  hastened  during  the  digestion  of  the  many  half- 
decayed  leaves  which  worms  consume.  Thus  the 
particles  of  earth,  forming  the  superficial  mold,  are 
subjected  to  conditions  eminently  favorable  for  their 
5  decomposition  and  disintegration.  Moreover,  the 
particles  of  the  softer  rocks  suffer  some  amount  of 
mechanical  trituration  in  the  muscular  gizzards  of 
worms,  in  which  small  stones  serve  as  mill-stones. 
The  finely  levigated  castings,  when  brought  to  the 

lo  surface  in  a  moist  condition,  flow  during  rainy 
weather  down  any  moderate  slope;  and  the  smaller 
particles  are  washed  far  down  even  a  gently  inclined 
surface.  Castings  when  dry  often  crumble  into 
small  pellets  and  these  are  apt  to  roll  down  any 

»5  sloping  surface.  Where  the  land  is  quite  level  and 
is  covered  with  herbage,  and  where  the  climate  is 
humid  so  that  much  dust  cannot  be  blown  away,  it 
appears  at  first  sight  impossible  th  it  there  should  be 
any   appreciable   amount   of   subacrial    denudation ; 

20  but  worm  castings  are  blown,  especially  whilst 
moist  and  viscid,  in  one  uniform  direction  by  the 
prevalent  winds  which  are  accompanied  by  rain. 
By  these  several  means  the  superficial  mold  is  pre- 
vented from  accumulating  to  a  great  thickness;  and 

25  a  thick  bed  of  mold  checks  in  many  ways  the  disin- 
tegration of  the  underlying  rocks  and  fragments  of 
rock. 

The   removal    of   worm   castings   by    the   above 
means  leads  to  results  which  are  far  from  insignif- 

3oicant.  It  has  been  shown  that  a  layer  of  earth,  .2 
of  an  inch  in  thickness,  is  in  many  places  annually 
brought  to  the  surface  per  acre ;  and  if  a  small  part 
of  this  amount  flows,  or  rolls,  or  is  washed,  even 
for  a  short  distance  down  every  inclined  surface,  or 


I40  EXPOSITION. 

is  repeatedly  blown  in  one  direction,  a  great  effect 
will  be  produced  in  the  course  of  ages.  It  was 
found  by  measurements  and  calculations  that  on  a 
surface  with  a  mean  inclination  of  9°  26',  2.4  cubic 
inches  of  earth  which  had  been  ejected  by  worms  5 
crossed,  in  the  course  of  a  year,  a  horizontal  line  one 
yard  in  length  ;  so  that  240  cubic  inches  would  cross 
a  line  100  yards  in  length.  This  latter  amount  in  a 
damp  state  would  weigh  113^  pounds.  Thus  a  con- 
siderable weight  of  earth  is  continually  moving  10 
down  each  side  of  every  valley,  and  will  in  time 
reach  its  bed.  Finally  this  earth  will  be  transported 
by  the  streams  flowing  in  the  valleys  into  the  ocean, 
the  great  receptacle  for  all  matter  denuded  from  the 
land.  It  is  known  from  the  amount  of  sediment  an-  i5 
nually  delivered  into  the  sea  by  the  Mississippi,  that 
its  enormous  drainage-area  must  on  an  average  be 
lowered  .00263  of  an  inch  each  year ;  and  this  would 
suffice  in  four  and  a  half  million  years  to  lower  the 
whole  drainage-area  to  the  level  of  the  sea-shore.  20 
So  that,  if  a  small  fraction  of  the  layer  of  fine  earth, 
.2  of  an  inch  in  thickness,  which  is  annually 
brought  to  the  surface  by  worms,  is  carried  away,  a 
great  result  cannot  fail  to  be  produced  within  a 
period  which  no  geologist  considers  extremely  long.  25 

Archaeologists  ought  to  be  grateful  to  worms,  as 
they  protect  and  preserve  for  an  indefinitely  long 
period  every  object,  not  liable  to  decay,  which  is 
dropped  on  the  surface  of  the  land,  by  burying  it  be-  3° 
neath  their  castings.  Thus,  also,  many  elegant  and 
curious  tesselated  pavements  and  other  ancient  re- 
mains have  been  preserved;  though  no  doubt  the 
worms  have  in  these  cases  been  largely  aided  by^ 


EARTH-WORMS  AND    THEIR   FUNCTION,      l^i 

earth  washed  and  blown  from  the  adjoining  land, 
especially  when  cultivated.  The  old  tesselated 
pavements  have,  however,  often  suffered  by  having 
subsided  unequally  from  being  unequally  under- 
5  mined  by  the  worms.  Even  old  massive  walls  may 
be  undermined  and  subside;  and  no  building  is  in 
this  respect  safe,  unless  the  foundations  lie  6  or  7 
feet  beneath  the  surface,  at  a  depth  at  which  worms 
cannot  work.  It  is  probable  that  many  monoliths 
10  and  some  old  walls  have  fallen  down  from  having 
been  undermined  by  worms. 

Worms  prepare  the  ground  in  an  excellent  man- 
ner for  the  growth  of  fibrous-rooted  plants  and  for 

15  seedlings  of  all  kinds.  They  periodically  expose  the 
mold  to  the  air,  and  sift  it  so  that  no  stones  larger 
than  the  particles  which  they  can  swallow  are  left 
in  it.  They  mingle  the  whole  intimately  together, 
like   a   gardener   who    prepare^    fine    soil    for   his 

20  choicest  plants.  In  this  state  it  is  well  fitted  to  re- 
tain moisture  and  to  absorb  all  soluble  substances, 
as  well  as  for  the  process  of  nitrification.  The  bones 
of  dead  animals,  the  harder  parts  of  insects,  the 
shells  of  land  mollusks,  leaves,  twigs,  etc.,  are  before 

25  long  all  buried  beneath  the  accumulated  castings  of 
worms,  and  are  thus  brought  in  a  more  or  less  de- 
cayed state  within  reach  of  the  roots  of  plants. 
Worms  likewise  drag  an  infinite  number  of  dead 
leaves  and  other  parts  of  plants  into  their  burrows, 

30  partly  for  the  sake  of  plugging  them  up  and  partly 
as  food. 

The  leaves  which  are  dragged  into  the  burrows 
as  food,  after  being  torn  into  the  finest  shreds, 
partially    digested,    and    saturated    with    the    in- 


142  EXPOSITION. 

testinal  and  urinary  secretions,  are  commin- 
gled with  much  earth.  This  earth  forms  the 
dark-colored,  rich  humus  which  almost  every- 
where covers  the  surface  of  the  land  with 
a  fairly  well-defined  layer  or  mantle.  Von  Han-  5 
sen  *  placed  two  worms  in  a  vessel  18  inches  in  di- 
ameter, which  was  filled  with  sand,  on  which  fallen 
leaves  were  strewed ;  and  these  were  soon  dragged 
into  their  burrows  to  a  depth  of  3  inches.  After 
about  6  weeks  an  almost  uniform  layer  of  sand,  a  10 
centimeter  (.4  inch)  in  thickness,  was  converted  into 
humus  by  having  passed  through  the  alimentary 
canals  of  these  two  worms.  It  is  believed  by  some 
persons  that  worm-burrows,  which  often  penetrate 
the  ground  almost  perpendicularly  to  a  depth  of  5  ^5 
or  6  feet,  materially  aid  in  its  drainage;  notwith- 
standing that  the  viscid  castings  piled  over  the 
mouths  of  the  burrows  prevent  or  check  the  rain- 
water directly  entering  them.  They  allow  the  air 
to  penetrate  deeply  into  the  ground.  They  also  20 
greatly  facilitate  the  downward  passage  of  roots  of 
moderate  size ;  and  these  will  be  nourished  by  the 
humus  with  which  the  burrows  are  lined.  Many 
seeds  owe  their  germination  to  having  been  covered 
by  castings;  and  others  buried  to  a  considerable 25 
depth  beneath  accumulated  castings  lie  dormant,  un- 
til at  some  future  time  they  are  accidentally  uncov- 
ered and  germinate. 

Worms  are  poorly  provided  with  sense-organs,  for  30 
they  cannot  be  said  to  see,  although  they  can  just 
distinguish  between  light  and  darkness;  they  are 

* "  Zeitschrift    ixix    wissenschaft.    Zoolog.,"    B.  xxviii., 
1877,  p.  360. 


EARTH-WORMS  AND    THEIR  FUNCTION.      143 

completely  deaf,  and  have  only  a  feeble  power  of 
smell ;  the  sense  of  touch  alone  is  well  developed. 
They  can  therefore  learn  little  about  the  outside 
world,  and  it  is  surprising  that  they  should  exhibit 
5  some  skill  in  lining  their  burrows  with  their  castings 
and  with  leaves,  and  in  the  case  of  some  species  in 
piling  up  their  castings  into  tower-like  constructions. 
But  it  is  far  more  surprising  that  they  should  ap- 
parently exhibit  some  degree  of  intelligence  instead 

loof  a  mere  blind  instinctive  impulse,  in  their  manner 
of  plugging  up  the  mouths  of  their  burrows.  They 
act  in  nearly  the  same  manner  as  would  a  man,  who 
had  so  close  a  cylindrical  tube  with  different  kinds 
of  leaves,  petioles,  triangles  of  paper,  etc.,  for  they 

t5  comrrvonly  seize  such  objects  by  their  pointed  ends. 
But  with  thin  objects  a  certain  number  are  drawn  in- 
by  their  broader  ends.     They  do  not  act  in  the  same 
unvarying  manner  in  all  cases,  as  do  most  of  the 
lower  animals ;   for  instance,  they  do  not  drag  in 

20  leaves  by  their  foot-stalks,  unless  the  basal  part  of 
the  blade  is  as  narrow  as  the  apex,  or  narrower 
than  it. 

When  we  behold  a  wide,  turf-covered  expanse,  we 
should  remember  that  its  smoothness,  on  which  so 

85  much  of  its  beauty  depends,  is  mainly  due  to  all  the 
inequalities  having  been  slowly  leveled  by  worms. 
It  is  a  marvelous  reflection  that  the  whole  of  the 
superficial  mold  over  any  such  expanse  has  passed, 
and  will  again  pass,  every  few  years  through  the 

30  bodies  of  worms.  The  plow  is  one  of  the  most  an- 
cient and  most  valuable  of  man's  inventions;  but 
long  before  he  existed  the  land  was  in  fact  regu- 
larly plowed,  and  still  continues  to  be  thus  plowed 


t44  EXPOSITION. 

by  earth-worms.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  there 
are  many  other  animals  which  have  played  so  im- 
portant a  part  in  the  history  of  the  world,  as  have 
these  lowly  organized  creatures.  Some  other  ani- 
mals, however,  still  more  lowly  organized,  namely  5 
corals,  have  done  far  more  conspicuous  work  in  hav- 
ing constructed  innumerable  reefs  and  islands  in  the 
great  oceans;  but  these  are  almost  confined  to  the 
tropical  zones. 

Notes. — The  force  of  this  example  of  Darwin's  scientific  10 
exposition  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  is  a  summary  of  a  three- 
hundred-page  book,  the  record  of  a  raarvelously  patient 
investigation,  years  long.     Paragraph   by  paragraph  the 
main  conclusions  of  the  research  are  now  stated,  and  each 
is  explained  by  a  summary  of  the  specific  facts  from  which  15 
it  was  inferred.      The   weight  and  precision   of   the  ex- 
tremely simple  language  can  be  appreciated  only  by  know- 
ing the  entire  book.     So  perfect  is  the  development  of  the 
subject  throughout  the  work,  and  so  orderly  is  the  sum- 
mary, that  one  can  almost  fancy  the  author  using  the  latter  2a 
to  make  the  former,  expanding  it  in  the  ratio  of  about  six 
pages  to  the  sentence. 


35.— ^be  Cbaracter  of  TlCltlllam  of  ©range. 

THOMAS   BABINGTON    MACAULAY. 

The    place    which    William    Henry,    Prince    of 
Orange  Nassau,  occupies  in  the  history  of  England 
and  of  mankind  is  so  great  that  it  may  be  desirable  25 
to  portray  with  some  minuteness  the  strong  linea- 
ments of  his  character. 

He  was  now  in  his  thirty-seventh  year.     But  both 
in  body  and  in  mind  he  was  older  than  other  men  of 


CHARACTER   OF    WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE.      145 

the  same  age.  Indeed  it  might  be  said  that  he  had 
never  been  young.  His  external  appearance  is  almost 
as  well  known  to  us  as  to  his  own  captains  and  coun- 
selors. Sculptors,  painters,  and  medalists  exerted 
5  their  utmost  skill  in  the  work  of  transmitting  his 
features  to  posterity ;  and  his  features  were  such  as 
no  artist  could  fail  to  seize,  and  such  as,  once  seen, 
could  never  be  forgotten.  His  name  at  once  calls 
up  before  us  a  slender  and  feeble  frame,  a  lofty  and 

10  ample  forehead,  a  nose  curved  like  the  beak  of  an 
eagle,  an  eye  rivaling  that  of  an  eagle  in  brightness 
and  keenness,  a  thoughtful  and  somewhat  sullen 
brow,  a  firm  and  somewhat  peevish  mouth,  a  cheek 
pale,  thin,  and  deeply  furrowed  by  sickness  and  by 

15  care.  That  pensive,  severe,  and  solemn  aspect 
could  scarcely  have  belonged  to  a  happy  or  a  good- 
humored  man.  But  it  indicates  in  a  manner  not  to 
be  mistaken  capacity  equal  to  the  most  arduous  en- 
terprises,  and   fortitude   not   to   be   shaken   by   re- 

20  verses  or  dangers. 

Nature  had  largely  endowed  William  with  the 
qualities  of  a  great  ruler ;  and  education  had  de- 
veloped those  qualities  in  no  common  degree.  With 
strong  natural   sense,   and   rare   force   of   will,   he 

25  found  himself,  when  first  his  mind  began  to  open, 
a  fatherless  and  motherless  child,  the  chief  of  a 
great  but  depressed  and  disheartened  party,  and  the 
heir  to  vast  and  indefinite  pretensions,  which  ex- 
cited the  dread  and  aversion  of  the  oligarchy  then 

30  supreme  in  the  United  Provinces.  The  common 
people,  fondly  attached  during  three  generations  to 
his  house,  indicated,  whenever  they  saw  him,  in  a 
manner  not  to  be  mistaken,  that  they  regarded  him 
as  their  rightful  head.     The  able  and  experienced 


^46  EXPOSITION. 

ministers  of  the  republic,  mortal  enemies  of  his 
name,  came  every  day  to  pay  their  feigned  civilities 
to  him,  and  to  observe  the  progress  of  his  mind. 
The  first  movements  of  his  ambition  were  carefully 
watched :  every  unguarded  word  uttered  by  him  was  < 
noted  down ;  nor  had  he  near  him  any  adviser  on 
whose  judgment  reliance  could  be  placed.  He  was 
scarcely  fifteen  years  old  when  all  the  domestics  who 
were  attached  to  his  interest,  or  who  enjoyed  any 
share  of  his  confidence,  were  removed  from  under  lo 
his  roof  by  the  jealous  government.  He  remon- 
strated with  energy  beyond  his  years,  but  in  vain. 
Vigilant  observers  saw  the  tears  more  than  once 
rise  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  state  prisoner.  His 
health,  naturally  delicate,  sank  for  a  time  under  the  15 
emotions  which  his  desolate  situation  had  produced. 
Such  situations  bewilder  and  unnerve  the  weak,  but 
call  forth  all  the  strength  of  the  strong.  Sur- 
rounded by  snares  in  which  an  ordinary  youth  would 
have  perished,  William  learned  to  tread  at  once  20 
warily  and  firmly.  Long  before  he  reached  man- 
hood, he  knew  how  to  keep  secrets,  how  to  baffle 
curiosity  by  dry  and  guarded  answers ;  how  to  con- 
ceal all  passions  under  the  same  show  of  grave  tran- 
quillity. Meanwhile  he  made  little  proficiency  in  25 
fashionable  or  literary  accomplishments.  The  man- 
ners of  the  Dutch  nobility  of  that  age  wanted  the 
grace  which  was  found  in  the  highest  perfection 
among  the  gentlemen  of  France,  and  which,  in  an 
inferior  degree,  embellished  the  Court  of  England ;  30 
and  his  manners  were  altogether  Dutch.  Even  his 
countrymen  thought  him  blunt.  To  foreigners  he 
often  seemed  churlish.  In  his  intercourse  with  the 
world  in  general  he  appeared  ignorant  or  negligent 


CHARACTER   OF    WILLIAM    OF  ORANGE.      147 

of  those  arts  which  double  the  value  of  a  favor  and 
take  away  the  sting  of  a  refusal.  He  was  Uttle  in- 
terested in  letters  or  science.  The  discoveries  of 
Newton  and  Liebnitz,  the  poems  of  Dryden  and 
5  Boileau,  were  unknown  to  him.  Dramatic  perform- 
ances tired  him,  and  he  was  glad  to  turn  away  from 
the  stage  and  to  talk  about  public  affairs,  while 
Orestes  was  raving,  or  while  Tartuffe  was  pressing 
Elmira's   hand.     He    had    indeed    some   talent   for 

lo  sarcasm,  and  not  seldom  employed,  quite  uncon- 
sciously, a  natural  rhetoric,  quaint,  indeed,  but  vigor- 
ous, and  original.  He  did  not,  however,  in  the  least 
affect  the  character  of  a  wit  or  of  an  orator.  His 
attention  had  been  confined  to  those  studies  which 

15  form  strenuous  and  sagacious  men  of  business. 
From  a  child  he  listened  with  interest  when  high 
questions  of  alliance,  finance,  and  war  were  dis- 
cussed. Of  geometry  he  learned  as  much  as  was 
necessary  for  the  construction  of  a  ravelin  or  a  horn- 

20  work.  Of  languages,  by  the  help  of  a  memory  sin- 
gularly powerful,  he  learned  as  much  as  was  neces- 
sary to  enable  him  to  comprehend  and  answer  with- 
out assistance  everything  that  was  said  to  him  and 
every  letter  which  he  received.     The  Dutch  was  his 

25  own  tongue.  With  the  French  he  was  not  less  fa- 
miliar. He  understood  Latin,  Italian,  and  Spanish. 
He  spoke  and  wrote  English  and  German,  inele- 
gantly, it  is  true,  and  inexactly,  but  fluently  and 
intelligibly.     No  qualification  could  be  more  impor- 

3otant  to  a  man  whose  life  was  to  be  passed  in  organ- 
izing great  alliances,  and  in  commanding  armies  as- 
sembled from  different  countries. 

One  class  of   philosophical   questions   had   been 
forced  on  his  attention  by  circumstances.,  and  seems 


148  EXPOSITION'. 

to  have  interested  him  more  than  might  have  been 
expected  from  his  general  character.  Among  the 
Protestants  of  the  United  Provinces,  as  among  the 
Protestants  of  our  island,  there  were  two  great  re- 
ligious parties  which  almost  exactly  coincided  with  5 
two  great  political  parties.  The  chiefs  of  the  munic- 
ipal oligarchy  were  Arminians,  and  were  commonly 
regarded  by  the  multitude  as  little  better  than 
Papists.  The  princes  of  Orange  had  generally  been 
the  patrons  of  the  Calvanistic  divinity,  and  owned  no  10 
small  part  of  their  popularity  to  their  zeal  for  the 
doctrines  of  election  and  final  perseverance,  a  zeal 
not  always  enlightened  by  knowledge  or  tempered 
by  humanity.  William  had  been  carefully  in- 
structed from  a  child  in  the  theological  system  to  15 
which  his  family  was  attached ;  and  he  regarded  that 
system  with  even  more  than  the  partiality  which  men 
generally  feel  for  a  hereditary  faith.  He  had  ru- 
minated on  the  great  enigmas  which  had  been  dis- 
cussed in  the  Synod  of  Dort,  and  had  found  in  the  20 
austere  and  inflexible  logic  of  the  Genevese  school 
something  which  suited  his  intellect  and  his  temper. 
That  example  of  intolerance  indeed  which  some  of 
his  predecessors  had  set  he  never  imitated.  For  all 
persecution  he  felt  a  fixed  aversion  which  he  avowed,  25 
not  only  where  the  avowal  was  obviously  politic,  but 
on  occasions  where  it  seemed  that  his  interest  would 
have  been  promoted  by  dissimulation  or  by  silence. 
His  theological  opinions,  however,  were  even  more 
decided  than  those  of  his  ancestors.  The  tenet  of  30 
predestination  was  the  keystone  of  his  religion.  He 
often  declared  that,  if  he  were  to  abandon  that  tenet, 
he  must  abandon  with  it  all  belief  in  a  superintend- 
ing Providence,  and  must  become  a  mere  Epicurean, 


CHARACTER   OF   WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE.      149 

Except  in  this  single  instance,  all  the  sap  of  his 
vigorous  mind  was  early  drawn  away  from  the  specu- 
lative to  the  practical.  The  faculties  which  are  nec- 
essary for  the  conduct  of  important  business  ripened 
5  in  him  at  a  time  of  life  when  they  have  scarcely  be- 
gun to  blossom  in  ordinary  men.  Since  Octavius 
the  world  had  seen  no  such  instance  of  precocious 
statesmanship.  Skillful  diplomatists  were  surprised 
to  hear  the  weighty  observations  which  at  seventeen 

lothe  Prince  made  on  public  affairs,  and  still  more 
surprised  to  see  a  lad,  in  situations  in  which  he 
might  have  been  expected  to  betray  strong  passion, 
preserve  a  composure  as  imperturbable  as  their  own. 
At  eighteen  he  sate  among  the  fathers  of  the  com- 

15  monwealth,  grave,  discreet,  and  judicious  as  the 
oldest  among  them.  At  twenty-one,  in  a  day  of 
gloom  and  terror,  he  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the 
administration.  At  twenty-three  he  was  renowned 
throughout  Europe  as  a  soldier  and  a  politician. 

20  He  had  put  domestic  factions  under  his  feet :  he  was 
the  soul  of  a  mighty  coalition ;  and  he  had  con- 
tended with  honor  in  the  field  against  some  of  the 
greatest  generals  of  the  age. 

His  personal  tastes  were  those  rather  of  a  warrior 

25  than  of  a  statesman ;  but  he,  like  his  great-grand- 
father, the  silent  prince  who  founded  the  Batavian 
commonwealth,  occupies  a  far  higher  place  among 
statesmen  than  among  warriors.  The  event  of  bat- 
tles, indeed,  is  net  an  unfailing  test  of  the  abilities 

30 of  a  commander;  and  it  would  be  peculiarly  unjust 
to  apply  this  test  to  William ;  for  it  was  his  fortune 
to  be  almost  always  opposed  to  captains  who  were 
consummate  masters  of  their  art,  and  to  troops  far 
superior  in  discipline  to  his  own.     Yet  there  is  rea- 


15°  EXPOSITION. 

son  to  believe  that  he  was  by  no  means  equal,  as  a 
general  in  the  field,  to  some  who  ranked  far  below 
him  in  intellectual  powers.  To  those  whom  he 
trusted  he  spoke  on  this  subject  with  the  magnani- 
mous frankness  of  a  man  who  had  done  great  5 
things,  and  who  could  well  afford  to  acknowledge 
some  deficiencies.  He  had  never,  he  said,  served  an 
apprenticeship  to  the  military  profession.  He  had 
been  placed,  while  still  a  boy,  at  the  head  of  an  army. 
Among  his  officers  there  had  been  none  competent  to  10 
instruct  him.  His  own  blunders  and  their  conse- 
quences had  been  his  only  lessons.  "  I  would  give," 
he  once  exclaimed,  "  a  good  part  of  my  estates  to 
have  served  a  few  campaigns  under  the  Prince  of 
Conde  before  I  had  to  command  against  him."  It  15 
is  not  improbable  that  the  circumstance  which  pre- 
vented William  from  attaining  any  eminent  dexter- 
ity in  strategy  may  have  been  favorable  to  the  gen- 
eral vigor  of  his  intellect.  If  his  battles  were  not 
those  of  a  great  tactician,  they  entitled  him  to  be  20 
called  a  great  man.  No  disaster  could  for  one  mo- 
ment deprive  him  of  his  firmness  or  of  the  entire 
possession  of  all  his  faculties.  His  defeats  were  re- 
paired with  such  marvelous  celerity  that,  before  his 
enemies  had  suns'-  the  Te  Deum,  he  was  again  ready  25 
for  the  conflict ;  nor  did  his  adverse  fortune  ever  de- 
prive him  of  the  respect  and  confidence  of  his  sol- 
diers. That  respect  and  confidence  he  owed  in  no 
small  measure  to  his  personal  courage.  Courage, 
in  the  degree  which  is  necessary  to  carry  a  soldier  30 
without  disgrace  through  a  campaign,  is  possessed, 
or  might,  under  proper  training,  be  acquired,  by  the 
great  majority  of  men.  But  courage  like  that  of 
William  is  rare  indeed.     He  was  proved  by  every 


CHARACTER   OF    WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE.      IS  J 

test ;  by  war,  by  wounds,  by  painful  and  depressing 
maladies,  by  raging  seas,  by  the  imminent  and  con- 
stant risk  of  assassination,  a  risk  which  has  shaken 
very  strong  nerves,  a  risk  which  severely  tried  even 
5  the  adamantine  fortitude  of  Cromwell.  Yet  none 
could  ever  discover  what  that  thing  was  which  the 
Prince  of  Orange  feared.  His  advisers  could  with 
difficulty  induce  him  to  take  any  precaution  against 
the  pistols  and  daggers  of  conspirators.*    Old  sailors 

lo  were  amazed  at  the  composure  which  he  preserved 
amidst  roaring  breakers  on  a  perilous  coast.  In  bat- 
tle his  bravery  made  him  conspicuous  even  among 
tens  of  thousands  of  brave  warriors,  drew  forth  the 
generous    applause    of    hostile    armies,    and    was 

15  scarcely  ever  questioned  even  by  the  injustice  of 
hostile  factions.  During  his  first  campaigns  he  ex- 
posed himself  like  a  man  who  sought  for  death,  was 
always  foremost  in  the  charge  and  last  in  the  retreat, 
fought  sword  in  hand,  in  the  thickest  press,  and, 

20  with  a  musket  ball  in  his  arm  and  the  blood  stream- 
ing over  his  cuirass,  still  stood  his  ground  and  waved 
his  hat  under  the  hottest  fire.  His  friends  adjured 
him  to  take  more  care  of  a  life  invaluable  to  his 

*  William  was  earnestly  entreated  by  his  friends,  after 
25  the  peace  of  Ryswick,  to  speak  seriously  to  the  French 
ambassador  about  the  schemes  of  assassination  which  the 
Jacobites  of  Saint  Germain's  were  constantly  contriving. 
The  cold  magnanimity  with  which  these  intimations  of 
danger  were  received  is  singularly  characteristic.  To 
30  Bentinck,  who  had  sent  from  Paris  very  alarming  intelli- 
gence, William  merely  replied,  at  the  end  of  a  long  letter 
of  business, — "  Pour  les  assasins  je  ne  luy  en  ay  pas  voulu 
parler,  croiant  que  c'etoit  au  desous  de  moy."  May  ^, 
1698.  I  keep  the  original  orthography,  if  it  is  to  be  so 
called. 


IS2  EXPOSITION. 

country ;  and  his  most  illustrious  antagonist,  the 
^eat  Conde,  remarked  after  the  bloody  day  of  Se- 
neff,  that  the  Prince  of  Orange  had  in  all  things 
borne  himself  like  an  old  general,  except  in  exposing 
himself  like  a  young  soldier.  William  denied  that  5 
he  was  guilty  of  temerity.  It  was,  he  said,  from  a 
sense  of  duty  and  on  a  cool  calculation  of  what  the 
public  interest  required,  that  he  was  always  at  the 
post  of  danger.  The  troops  which  he  commanded 
had  been  little  used  to  war,  and  shrank  from  a  close  10 
encounter  with  the  veteran  soldiery  of  France.  It 
was  necessary  that  their  leader  should  show  them 
how  battles  were  to  be  won.  And  in  truth  more 
than  one  day  which  had  seemed  hopelessly  lost  was 
retrieved  by  the  hardihood  with  which  he  rallied  his  15 
broken  battalions  and  cut  down  the  cowards  who  set 
the  example  of  flight.  Sometimes,  however,  it 
seemed  that  he  had  a  strange  pleasure  in  venturing 
his  person.  It  was  remarked  that  his  spirits  were 
never  so  high  and  his  manners  never  so  gracious  and  20 
easy  as  amidst  the  tumult  and  carni^ge  of  a  battle. 
Even  in  his  pastimes  he  liked  the  excitement  of  dan- 
ger. Cards,  chess,  and  billiards  gave  him  no  pleas- 
ure. The  chase  was  his  favorite  recreation ;  and  he 
loved  it  most  when  it  was  most  hazardous.  His  25 
'■eaps  were  sometimes  such  that  hie  boldest  compan- 
ions did  not  like  to  follow  him.  He  seemed  to  have 
thought  the  most  hardy  field  sports  of  England 
effeminate,  and  to  have  pined  in  the  great  park  of 
Windsor  for  the  game  which  he  had  been  used  to  30 
drive  to  bay  in  the  forests  of  Guelders,  wolves,  and 
wild  boars,  and  huge  stags  with  sixteen  antlers.* 

*  From  Windsor  he  wrote  to  Bentinck,  then  ambassador 
4t  Paris.    "  J'ay  pris  avant  hier  un  cerf  dans  la  forest  avec 


CHARACTER  OF   WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE.      I53 

The  audacity  of  his  spirit  was  the  more  remark- 
able because  his  physical  organization  was  unusu- 
ally delicate.  From  a  child  he  had  been  weak  and 
sickly.  In  the  prime  of  manhood  his  complaints  had 
5  been  aggravated  by  a  severe  attack  of  smallpox. 
He  was  asthmatic  and  consumptive.  His  slender 
frame  was  shaKen  by  a  constant  hoarse  cough.  He 
could  not  sleep  unless  his  head  was  propped  by  sev- 
eral pillows,  and  could  scarcely  draw  his  breath  in 

loany  but  the  purest  air.  Cruel  headaches  frequently 
tortured  him.  Exertion  soon  fatigued  him.  The 
physicians  constantly  kept  up  the  hopes  of  his  ene- 
mies by  fixing  some  date  beyond  which,  if  there 
were  anything  certain  in  medical  science,  it  was  im- 

15  possible  that  his  broken  constitution  could  hold  out. 
Yet,  through  a  life  which  was  one  long  disease,  the 
force  of  his  mind  never  failed,  on  any  great  occa- 
sion, to  bear  up  his  suffering  and  languid  body. 
He  was  born  with  violent  passions  and  quick  sen- 

^°  sibilities :  but  the  strength  of  his  emotions  was  not 
suspected  by  the  world.  From  the  multitude  his 
joy  and  his  grief,  his  affection  and  his  resentment, 
were  hidden  by  a  phlegmatic  serenity,  which  made 
him  pass   for  the  most  cold-blooded  of  mankind. 

25  Those  who  brought  him  good  news  could  seldom 

les  chains  du  Pr.  de  Denm,  et  ay  fait  un  assez  jolie  chasse, 

autant  que  ce  vilain  paiis  le  permest."     March  20,  j,  g^ 

April  I, 
The  spelling  is  bad,  but  not  worse  than  Napoleon's.     Wil- 
liam wrote  in  better  humor  from  Loo.     "  Nous  avons  pris 
30  deux  gros  cerfs,  le  premier  dans  Dorewaert,   qui  est  un 
des  plus  gros  que  je  sache  avoir  jamais  pns.     II  porte 

„    Oct.  21;,    r 

seize." ii  1697. 

Nov.  4, 


XS4  EXPOSITION. 

detect  any  sign  of  pleasure.  Those  who  saw  him 
after  a  defeat  looked  in  vain  for  any  trace  of  vexa- 
tion. He  praised  and  reprimanded,  rewarded  and 
punished,  with  the  stern  tranquillity  of  a  Mohawk 
chief:  but  those  who  knew  him  well  and  saw  him  5 
near  were  aware  that  under  all  this  ice  a  fierce  fire 
was  constantly  burning.  It  was  seldom  that  anger 
deprived  him  of  power  over  himself.  But  when  he 
was  really  enraged  the  first  outbreak  of  his  passion 
was  terrible.  It  was  indeed  scarcely  safe  to  ap- 10 
proach  him.  On  these  rare  occasions,  however,  as 
soon  as  he  regained  his  self-command,  he  made  such 
ample  reparation  to  those  whom  he  had  wronged  as 
tempted  them  to  wish  that  he  would  go  into  a  fury 
again.  His  affection  was  as  impetuous  as  his  wrath.  15 
Where  he  loved,  he  loved  with  the  whole  energy  of 
his  strong  mind.  When  death  separated  him  from 
what  he  loved,  the  few  who  witnessed  his  agonies 
trembled  for  his  reason  and  his  life.  To  a  very 
small  circle  of  intimate  friends,  on  whose  fidelity  20 
and  secrecy  he  could  absolutely  depend,  he  was  a 
different  man  from  the  reserved  and  stoical  William 
whom  the  multitude  supposed  to  be  destitute  of  hu- 
man feelings.  He  was  kind,  cordial,  open,  even 
convivial  and  jocose,  would  sit  at  table  many  25 
hours,  and  would  bear  his  full  share  in  festive  con- 
versation. Highest  in  his  favor  stood  a  gentleman 
of  his  household  named  Bentinck,  sprung  from  a 
noble  Batavian  race,  and  destined  to  be  the  founder 
of  one  of  the  great  patrician  houses  of  England.  30 
The  fidelity  of  Bentinck  had  been  tried  by  no  com- 
mon test.  It  was  while  the  United  Provinces  were 
struggling  for  existence  against  the  French  power 
that  the  young  Prince  on  whom  all  their  hopes  were 


CHARACTER    OF    WILLIAM   OF  ORANGE.      155 

fixed  were  seized  by  the  smallpox.  That  disease  had 
been  fatal  to  many  members  of  his  family,  and  at 
first  wore,  in  his  case,  a  peculiarly  malignant  as- 
pect. The  public  consternation  was  great.  The 
5  streets  of  The  Hague  were  crowded  from  daybreak 
to  sunset  by  persons  anxiously  asking  how  His 
Highness  was.  At  length  his  complaint  took  a  fa- 
vorable turn.  His  escape  was  attributed  partly  to  his 
own  singular  equanimity,  and  partly  to  the  intrepid 

loand  indefatigable  friendship  of  Bentinck.  From  the 
hands  of  Bentinck  alone  William  took  food  and 
medicine.  By  Bentinck  alone  William  was  lifted 
from  his  bed  and  laid  down  in  it.  "  Whether  Ben- 
tinck slept  or  not  while  I  was  ill,"  said  William  to 

15  Temple,  with  great  tenderness,  "  I  know  not.  But 
this  I  know,  that,  through  sixteen  days  and  nights, 
I  never  once  called  for  anything  but  that  Bentinck 
was  instantly  at  my  side."  Before  the  faithful  serv- 
ant had  entirely  performed  his  task,  he  had  himself 

20  caught  the  contagion.  Still,  however,  he  bore  up 
against  drowsiness  and  fever  till  his  master  was 
pronounced  convalescent.  Then,  at  length,  Ben- 
tinck asked  leave  to  go  home.  It  was  time :  for  his 
limbs  would  no  longer  support  him.     He  was  in 

25  great  danger,  but  recovered,  and  as  soon  as  he  left 

his  bed,  hastened  to  the  army,  where,  during  many 

sharp  campaigns,  he  was  ever  found,  as  he  had  been 

in  peril  of  a  different  kind,  close  to  William's  side. 

Such  was  the  origin  of  a  friendship  as  warm  and 

30  pure  as  any  that  ancient  or  modern  history  records. 
The  descendants  of  Bentinck  still  preserve  many  let- 
ters written  by  William  to  their  ancestor:  and  it  is 
not  too  much  to  say  that  no  person  who  has  not 
studied  those  letters  can  form  a  correct  notion  of  the 


IS  6  EXPOSITION. 

Prince's  character.  He,  whom  even  his  admirers 
generally  accounted  the  most  distant  and  frigid  of 
men,  here  forgets  all  distinctions  of  rank,  and  pours 
out  all  his  thoughts  with  the  ingenuousness  of  a 
schoolboy.  He  imparts  without  reserve  secrets  of  5 
the  highest  moment.  He  explains  with  perfect  sim- 
plicity vast  designs  affecting  all  the  governments  of 
Europe.  Mingled  with  his  communications  on  such 
subjects  are  other  communications  of  a  very  differ- 
ent, but  perhaps  not  of  a  less  interesting  kind.  All  w 
his  adventures,  all  his  personal  feelings,  his  long 
runs  after  enormous  stags,  his  carousals  on  Saint 
Hubert's  day,  the  growth  of  his  plantations,  the  fail- 
ure of  his  melons,  the  state  of  his  stud,  his  wish  to 
procure  an  easy  pad  nag  for  his  wife,  his  vexation  »S 
at  learning  that  one  of  his  household,  after  ruining 
a  girl  of  good  family,  refused  to  marry  her,  his  fits 
of  seasickness,  his  coughs,  his  headaches,  his  de- 
votional moods,  his  gratitude  for  the  divine  protec- 
tion after  a  great  escape,  his  struggles  to  submit  20 
himself  to  the  divine  will  after  a  disaster,  are  de- 
scribed with  an  admirable  garrulity  hardly  to  have 
been  expected  from  the  most  discreet  and  sedate 
statesman  of  the  age.  Still  more  remarkable  is  the 
careless  effusion  of  his  tenderness,  and  the  brotherly  sj 
interest  which  he  takes  in  his  friend's  domestic  fe- 
licity. When  an  heir  is  born  to  Bentinck,  "  he  will 
live,  I  hope,"  says  William,  '"  to  be  as  good  a  fellow 
as  you  are ;  and  if  I  should  have  a  son,  our  children 
will  love  each  other,  I  hope,  as  we  have  done."  *  30 
Through  life  he  continues  to  regard  the  little  Ben- 
tincks  with  paternal  kindness.  He  calls  them  by  en- 
dearing diminutives :  he  takes  charge  of  them  in 
their  father's  absence,  and  though  vexed  at  being 
*  March  3,  1679. 


CHARACTER   OF    WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE.      15 7 

forced  to  refuse  them  any  pleasure,  will  not  suffer 
them  to  go  on  a  hunting  party,  where  there  would 
be  risk  of  a  push  from  a  stag's  horn,  or  to  sit  up 
late  at  night  at  a  riotous  supper.*  When  their 
5  mother  is  taken  ill  in  her  husband's  absence,  Wil- 
liam, in  the  midst  of  business  of  the  highest  moment, 
finds  time  to  send  off  several  expresses  in  one  day 
with  short  notes  containing  intelligence  of  her 
state.f     On  one  occasion,  when  she  is  pronounced 

10  out  of  danger  after  a  severe  attack,  the  Prince 
breaks  forth  into  fervent  expressions  of  gratitude  to 
God.  "  I  write,"  he  says,  "  with  tears  of  joy  in  my 
eyes."  %  There  i .  a  singular  charm  in  such  letters, 
penned  by  a  man  whose  irresistible  energy  and  in- 

15  flexible  firmness  extorted  the  respect  of  his  enemies, 
whose  cold  and  ungracious  demeanor  repelled  the 
attachment  of  almost  all  his  partisans,  and  whose 
mind  was  occupied  by  gigantic  schemes  which  have 
changed  the  face  of  the  world. 

— History  of  England. 

20  Notes. — What  is  known  as  the  character-sketch  is  a 
composite  type  of  composition,  containing  description, 
exposition,  and  usually  narration.  According  as  a  particu- 
lar kind  of  writing  predominates,  the  character-sketch 
may  be  classified  under  anyone  of  the  three  genres.     In  the 

25     *Voili  en  peu  de  mot  le   detail  de  nostre  St.  Hubert. 
Et  j'ay  eu  soin  que  M.  Woodstoc  "  (Bentinck's  eldest  son) 
"  n'a  point  est6  k  la  chasse,  bien  moin  au  soup6,  quoyqu'il 
fut  icy.     Vous  pouvez  pourtant  croire  que  de  n'avoir  pas 
chass4  I'a  un  peu  mortifi^,  mais  je  ne  I'ay  pas  aus6  prendre 
30  sur  moy ,  puisque  vous  m'aviez  dit  que  vous  ne  le  souhaitiez' 
pas."    From  Loo,  Nov.  4,  1697. 
fOn  the  15th  of  June,  1688, 
X  September  6,  1679. 


158  EXPOSITION. 

typical  specimen,  however,  exposition  prevails  ;  the  aim 
is  to  set  forth  the  underlying  principles  of  the  given  char- 
acter. Such  is  the  case  in  Macaulay's  portrait  of  William 
of  Orange.  There  is  m\ich  description,  much  narration, 
but  all  is  to  bring  out  the  main  principles  to  which  the  5 
king's  acts  were  referable.  Macaulay's  general  state- 
ments, each  of  which  is  illustrated  fully  as  the  sketch 
proceeds,  are  as  follows  :  i.  "  Both  in  body  and  in  mind 
he  was  older  than  other  men  of  the  same  age."  2.  "  Nature 
had  largely  endowed  William  with  the  qualities  of  a  great  10 
ruler  ;  and  education  had  developed  those  qualities  in  no 
common  degree."  3.  "  One  class  of  philosophical  questions 
had  been  forced  on  his  attention  by  circumstances,  and 
seems  to  have  interested  him  more  than  might  have  been 
expected  from  his  general  character."  4.  "  Except  in  this  15 
single  instance,  all  the  sap  of  his  vigorous  mind  was  early 
drawn  from  the  speculative  to  the  practical."  5.  "  His 
personal  tastes  were  those  rather  of  a  warrior  than  of  a 
statesman  ;  but  he,  like  his  great-grandfather,  the  silent 
prince  who  founded  the  Batavian  commonwealth,  occupies  20 
a  far  higher  place  among  statesmen  than  among  warriors." 
6.  "  The  audacity  of  his  spirit  was  the  more  remarkable 
that  his  physical  organization  was  unusually  delicate."  7. 
"  He  was  born  with  violent  passions  and  quick  sensibili- 
ties ;  but  the  strength  of  his  emotions  was  not  suspected  25 
by  the  world." 


36.— ttbe  Cirotcctlon  of  Blectrical  apparatus 
against  Xlgbtning." 

ALEXANDER  JAY   WURTS, 
Of  the  Westinghouse  Electrical  Company. 

Our  subject  deals  largely  with  the  static  spark. 
In  the  lightning-stroke  we  see  it  in  its  grandest  and 

*  Reprinted  from  The  Century  Magazine^  by  perrnission  of  Messrs. 
The  Century  Company. 


PROTECTION  AGAINST  LIGHTNING.         i59 

most  powerful  form.  A  step  or  two  across  a  thick 
carpet  on  a  dry  winter's  day,  and  the  spark  which 
may  be  produced  is  so  small  as  to  be  almost  invisible. 
Benjamin  Franklin  with  a  key  drew  static  sparks 
5  from  his  kite-string.  The  lightning  and  the  spark 
are  the  same  in  character,  the  difference  being  sim- 
ply one  of  degree ;  moreover,  the  little  snap  of  the 
tiny  spark  differs  only  in  degree  from  the  splitting 
crash  of  the  lightning-flash. 

lo  The  static  spark,  or  disruptive  discharge,  as  it  is 
often  called,  has  many  interesting  characteristics 
quite  different  from  the  ordinary  electric  current 
found  in  our  lighting  and  trolley  wires.  The  latter 
is  a  constant  and  comparatively  gentle  force  which 

15  is  easily  controlled,  like  the  force  of  wind  or  flowing 
water.  The  disruptive  discharge  is  sudden  and  vio- 
lent, more  like  the  flight  of  a  bullet  or  the  blow  of  a 
hammer.  It  is  not  easily  controlled,  and  it  obeys 
laws  which  are  but  imperfectly  understood.     The 

20  static  spark  is  not,  as  is  commonly  supposed,  a  sim- 
ple passage  from  one  point  to  another ;  it  is  oscilla- 
tory ;  it  surges  back  and  forth  with  inconceivable  ra- 
pidity. In  lightning-flashes  about  twelve  oscilla- 
tions  may   be   observed,   the   time    interval    being 

25  reckoned  at  about  the  one  hundred  thousandth  part 
of  a  second.  The  oscillatory  character  of  the  dis- 
charge gives  rise  to  remarkable  phenomena,  which 
are  the  immediate  cause  of  many  idiosyncrasies  or 
lightning  freaks. 

30  Those  characteristics  which  more  particularly  con- 
cern us  are: 

(i)  That  of  surging,  already  mentioned;  (2) 
that  of  self-induction,  which  is  a  result  of  surging; 
(3)  that  of  "  side-flash,"  or  selection,  this  being  a  re- 


i6o  EXPOSITION. 

suit  of  self-induction;  and   (finally)   that  of  pene- 
tration. 

Self-induction  is  a  property  which  gives  rise  to  a 
counter-force  or  choking  effect.  It  is  dependent  on 
the  oscillatory  character  of  the  discharge,  and  ex-  5 
ists  to  a  considerable  degree  in  straight  wires,  but 
is  vastly  more  pronounced  in  coils.  Coils  of  wire, 
therefore,  when  used  in  connection  with  static  dis- 
charges, are  called  choke  coils. 

Side-flash,  the  result  of  self-induction,  is  com-  lo 
monly  called  a  freak.     A  disruptive  discharge  will 
often  leave  what  would  ordinarily  be  called  an  ex- 
cellent conductor  and  side-flash  through  the  high  re- 
sistance of  the  atmosphere  to  other  objects.     For  ex- 
ample,   a    disruptive    discharge,    rather    than    pass  15 
through  a  coil  of  bare  copper  wire,  will  take  a  short 
cut,  and  jump  from  one  convolution  to  the  other,  al- 
though, as  electrical  resistance  is  ordinarily  under- 
stood, the  path  through  the  copper  wire  offers  an 
incomparably  lowier  resistance  than  any  single  one  of  20 
the  air-spaces  between  the  convolutions.     And  then, 
a  lightning-flash  will  not  infrequently  strike  some 
good  conductor,  such  as  a  lightning-rod,  follow  it 
for  a  short  distance,  and  then  side-flash,  selecting 
its  own  path  through  a  wall  of  brick  or  stone  to  325 
neighboring  gas-pipe  or  bell-wire.     Ordinarily  we 
should  say  that  the  lightning  conductor  would  not 
offer  a  fraction  of  the  resistance  offered  by  a  stone 
wall.     It  is  self-induction  which,  giving  rise  to  a 
counter-force  or  choking  effect,  causes  the  discharge  30 
to  side-flash. 

The  penetrating  power  of  the  discharge  is  the 
bugaboo  of  electricians.  The  lightning-flash  liter- 
ally bores  a  hole  through  the  atmosphere,  just  as  a 


PROTECTION  AGAINST  LIGHTNING.         l6l 

bullet  would  bore  its  way  through  a  mass  of  jelly. 
Smaller  discharges  will  pass  through  shorter  dis- 
tances of  air.  Solid  insulating  materials  are  also 
more  or  less  easily  punctured.  The  discharge 
5  brought  about  by  stepping  over  a  thick  carpet,  as  al- 
ready described,  would  pierce  a  sheet  of  thin  paper, 
whereas  sparks  from  an  engine-belt  might  easily 
bore  a  hole  through  this  magazine.  If  Franklin  had 
held  a  piece  of  glass  between  his  key  and  the  kite- 

lo  string,  it  is  probable  that  the  sparks  would  have 
readily  pierced  the  glass  with  small  round  holes. 

During  thunder-storms  the  atmosphere,  and  all 
conducting  objects  in  the  immediate  neighborhood, 
become  charged  with  electricity  at  a  constantly  in- 

15  creasing  potential  or  intensity  as  we  recede  from  the 
earth.  At  the  top  of  the  Washington  Monument 
a  potential  of  three  thousand  volts  has  been  meas- 
ured, and  at  the  top  of  the  Eiffel  Tower  ten  thou- 
sand volts.     Even  objects  directly  on  the  earth,  such 

20  as  railroad  tracks,  wire  fences,  etc.,  become  charged, 
and  in  the  high  altitudes  of  our  Western  country  wet 
rocks  will  frequently  show  signs  of  electrostatic 
charge.  All  such  charged  objects  will  spark,  and 
the  phenomena  above  described  will  in  every  case 

25  be  more  or  less  plainly  visible. 

Now,  overhead  wires,  like  the  objects  already 
mentioned,  become  charged  during  thunder-storms, 
but  the  wires  themselves  are  rarely  struck  by  light- 
ning.    If  they  were  placed  in  a  vertical  position, 

30  reaching  from  the  earth  toward  the  clouds,  then  the 
lightning  would  in  many  cases  strike  the  wires  and 
follow  them  into  the  earth.  But  there  is  no  electri- 
cal reason  why  lightning  should  pay  any  especial  at- 
tention to  a  horizontal  wire,  nor  does  the  fact  that  a 


i62  exposition: 

wire  may  be  carrying  ordinary  electric  current  ren- 
der it  any  more  liable  to  atmospheric  electric  dis- 
turbance. Overhead  wires  then  become  charged 
with  static  electricity,  and  will  spark.  These 
sparks  are  very  penetrating,  and  will  bore  5 
through  insulating  materials  of  high  resistance. 
A  wire  thus  charged  is  also  liable  to  side-flash ; 
that  is,  sparking  is  liable  to  occur  at  one  place 
or  another  without  apparent  reason.  A  reason,  of 
course,  exists ;  but,  unfortunately,  the  explanation  of  10 
it  serves  only  to  show  the  impossibility  of  predeter- 
mining the  point  or  points  at  which  the  discharge 
will  take  place.  When  a  lightning-flash  occurs,  all 
electrified  bodies  in  the  neighborhood  undergo  a  tre- 
mendous shaking  up,  as  it  were.  A  new  condition  15 
of  electric  equilibrium  is  at  once  established,  and 
during  this  readjustment  electric  waves  are  set  up 
in  overhead  wires,  which  travel  with  inconceivable 
rapidity  from  end  to  end,  and  which,  being  reflected, 
interfere  with  one  another  very  much  as  water  waves  20 
do.  For  example,  if  a  trough  of  water  were  raised 
at  one  end,  and  then  quickly  lowered,  the  water  in 
the  trough  would  quietly  surge  back  and  forth ;  but 
if  the  end  of  the  trough  be  raised  a  second  time,  a 
new  system  of  surging  may  be  started  in  such  a  man-  25 
ner  that  the  two  will  interfere  with  each  other,  and 
cause  splashing  at  certain  points  where  crests  of  the 
two  systems  combine  to  form  other  crests.  Calm  or 
smooth  surfaces  will  be  noticed  at  points  where  a 
crest  of  one  system  has  been  neutralized  by  a  jo 
trough  of  the  other  system.  In  electric  wires  we 
have  somewhat  analogous  conditions  during  thun- 
der-storms ;  we  have  what  a  sailor  would  call  a 
"  choppy  sea."     It  will  thus  be  seen  how  impossible 


PROTECTION  AGAINST  LIGHTNING.         1 63 

it  v.ould  be  to  predetermine  the  points  at  which  elec- 
tric splashing  or  side-flash  would  be  likely  to  occur. 
With  a  word  or  two  now  about  the  construction 
of  electrical  apparatus,  we  shall  be  in  a  position  to 
5  understand  the  particular  danger  which  threatens 
electric  systems  during  thunder-storms ;  also  the 
means  employed  for  avoiding  this  danger. 

In  general,  and  as  far  as  our  present  purpose  is 
concerned,  electrical  apparatus  may  be  said  to  con- 

10  sist  of  coils  of  insulated  copper  wire  and  iron  cores 
placed  within  the  coils.  There  are,  then,  three  ma- 
terials present — iron,  insulation,  and  copper.  The 
iron  is  usually  grounded — that  is,  connected  with  the 
earth.     The  copper  is  in  contact  with  the  overhead 

15  wire;  it  is  electrically  a  part  of  it,  and  the  insulating 
material,  which  may  be  of  shellacked  muslin,  fiber, 
hard  rubber,  mica,  or  any  similar  material,  serves  to 
separate  the  copper  from  the  iron.  It  serves  to  con- 
fine the  current  to  the  copper,  forcing  it  to  pass 

20  through  the  convolutions  of  the  coil  rather  than  al- 
low it  to  take  a  short  cut  through  the  iron,  which  it 
would  certainly  do  if  the  insulating  material  were 
not  present.  Now,  during  thunder-storms  the  static 
or  disruptive  discharge,  in  side-flashing  from  one 

25  point  or  another  of  the  copper  wire,  frequently  per- 
forates the  insulating  material,  establishing  thereby 
electrical  communication  between  the  copper  and  the 
iron,  and  through  this  opening  the  dynamo  current 
will  follow  the  spark,  causing  in  an  instant  a  de- 

30  structive  and  intensely  hot  electric  arc,  which  will 
quickly  reduce  both  copper  and  iron  to  a  blackened 
mass. 

In  telephone  and  telegraph  circuits  the  current  is 
not  ordinarily  powerful  enough  to  follow  the  dis- 


l64  EXPOSITION. 

ruptive  discharge  through  the  insulation;  neverthe- 
less the  discharge  itself  is  quite  sufficient  to  dam- 
age the  instrument  seriously,  and  interrupt  the 
service. 

Having  thus  far  described  some  of  the  important  5 
phenomena  which  are  associated  with  electric  sys- 
tems during  thunder-storms,  and  having  also  shown 
how  electric  apparatus  may  be  damaged  thereby,  we 
will  now  consider  the  means  which  have  been  de- 
vised for  protecting  such  apparatus.  10 

The  instruments  used  for  this  purpose  are  called 
"  lightning-arresters  "  and  "  choke-coils."  A  choke- 
coil  is  simply  a  coil  of  insulated  wire.  It  may,  how- 
ever, have  special  forms.  A  lightning-arrester,  in 
its  simplest  form,  consists  of  two  pieces  of  metal  15 
placed  about  one  thirty-second  of  an  inch  apart,  the 
space  between  them  being  called  a  "  spark-gap." 
When  in  service,  one  of  these  pieces  of  metal  is  con- 
nected with  the  overhead  wire  to  be  protected,  the 
other  with  the  earth.  During  thunder-storms  the  20 
static  charges  are  expected  to  jump  over  the  spark- 
gap  of  a  lightning-arrester, — that  is,  side-flash  at 
that  point, — and  so  pass  to  earth,  rather  than  perfo- 
rate the  insulation  of  the  system.  If  Franklin  had 
held  a  sheet  of  paper  between  his  key  and  the  kite-  25 
string,  and  if  a  second  person  had  placed  a  second  key 
in  closer  proximity  to  the  string  than  Franklin's  key, 
nearly  all  the  sparks  would  have  passed  or  have  been 
diverted  to  the  second  key.  The  paper  would  per- 
haps not  have  been  perforated  at  all ;  the  second  key  30 
would  have  protected  the  paper,  and  could  properly 
have  been  called  a  protector  or  diverter.  To-day  a 
similar  device  is  called  a  "  lightning  arrester," 
which  name  is  obviously  a  misnomer. 


PROTECTION  AGAINST  LIGHTNING,         I65 

If  we  strip  an  electric  installation  of  all  its  me- 
chanical features  save  those  which  immediately  con- 
cern our  subject,  we  shall  find  Franklin's  kite-string 
corresponding  to  the  copper,  the  sheet  of  paper  to 
5  the  insulating  material,  and  the  key  to  the  iron. 

A  lightning-arrester  as  above  described  in  its 
simplest  form,  while  it  allows  the  spark  to  pass,  will 
also  allow  the  dynamo  current  to  follow  the  spark, 
and  thereby  establish  a  short  circuit,  which  means  an 

10  enormous  flow  of  current,  a  dangerous  arc,  and  pos- 
sible danger  from  fire ;  and,  further,  by  reason  of  the 
selective  character  of  discharges, — that  is,  the  tend- 
ency to  side-flash  at  one  point  or  another,  accord- 
ing to  the  conditions  of  our  electric  "'  choppy  sea," 

15  — the  discharge  does  not  always  pass  over  the  spark- 
gap  of  the  arrester;  very  often  it  will  quite  ignore 
this  spark-gap,  and  pass  on  to  do  its  destructive 
work  in  the  electrical  apparatus.  The  latter  diffi- 
culty is  avoided  to  a  very  great  extent  by  placing  a 

20  considerable  number  of  lightning  arresters  along  the 
wire,  thereby  multiplying  the  opportunities  for  dis- 
charge. The  danger  to  the  apparatus  is  also  very 
much  lessened  by  connecting  choke-coils  in  the  wire 
between  the  apparatus  and  the  arresters.     The  coils, 

25  then,  by  virtue  of  their  inductive  resistance,  tend  to 
choke  the  discharge  back,  and  force  it  over  one  or 
more  of  the  lightning-arrester  spark-gaps.  How- 
ever, should  the  insulation  of  the  apparatus  be  weak 
or  defective,  the  discharge  will  surely  find  it  out,  in 

30  spite  of  all  the  lightning-arresters  and  choke-coils 
that  might  be  employed.  In  this  respect  the  manu- 
facturers of  light  and  power  apparatus  are  far  in 
advance  of  the  manufacturers  of  telephone  and  tele- 
graph apparatus.    The  former  have  apparently  made 


1 66  EXPOSITION. 

a  more  thorough  and  searching  study  of  the  prob- 
lem in  all  its  requirements,  whereas  the  latter  seem 
to  have  confined  their  efforts  more  particularly  to 
the  construction  of  a  lightning-arrester  having  a  sen- 
sitive spark-gap.  It  is  not  likely  that  material  ad-  5 
vances  will  be  made  in  the  art  of  protecting  telephone 
and  telegraph  apparatus  until  a  better  grade  of  in- 
sulation is  adopted. 

After  all,  it  is  the  formation  of  the  electric  arc  at 
the   spark-gap   of   a   lightning-arrester    which   has  10 
probably  caused  more  trouble,  more  study,  and  has 
been  the  cause  of  more  novel  inventions,  than  all  the 
other  details  of  this  problem  put  together. 

A  lightning-arrester,  to  be  serviceable,  must  be 
capable  of  discharging  the  line  indefinitely;  but  the  15 
simple  form  of  lightning-arrester  which  we  have  de- 
scribed will,  when  connected  to  light  or  power  cir- 
cuits, burn  up  at  the  first  discharge,  unless  means 
are  taken  to  prevent  it.  In  the  early  days  this  diffi- 
culty was  avoided  by  placing  fuses  or  strips  of  lead  2c 
in  the  lightning-arrester  circuit,  so  that  when  the 
electric  arc  was  formed,  owing  to  the  passage  of  the 
dynamo  current,  the  lead  fuse  would  melt  and  there- 
by interrupt  the  current.  But  during  a  thunder- 
storm it  was  often  a  dangerous  matter  to  replace  25 
these  fuses;  so  other  devices  were  invented,  which 
had  for  their  object  the  automatic  interruption  of  the 
arc,  without  interfering  with  the  service  of  the  light- 
ning-arrester. These  automatic  lightning-arresters, 
however,  were  generally  constructed  with  moving  3c 
parts,  which  were  liable  to  get  out  of  order,  and  at 
best  they  constituted  a  remedy  rather  than  a  preven- 
tive. Some  of  these  gave  excellent  satisfaction  for 
a  time;  but   with  the  larger  currents  and  higher 


PROTECTION  AGAINST  LIGHTNING.  16? 

working  pressures  of  modern  light  and  power  plants, 
it  soon  became  evident  that  arcs  and  moving  parts 
were  very  undesirable  features. 

And  so  once  more  the  inventors  went  to  work, 

5  with  the  final  result  that  lightning-arresters,  as  now 
constructed,  have  no  moving  parts,  and  operate 
without  destructive  arcs.  In  fact,  nearly  all  the 
difficulties  have  at  last  been  overcome,  and  before 
long  it  may  be  that  atmospheric  electricity,  instead 

10  of  being  an  enemy,  will  become  a  boon  to  mankind. 
Is  not  atmospheric  electricity  one  of  the  great  natu- 
ral forces?  Who  can  say  that  it  may  not  some  day 
obey  man  and  do  his  service? 

Notes. — Ability  to  explain  the  principles  which  underlie 

15  the  workings  of  a  machine  is  an  essential  part  of  a  technical 
education.  Mr.  Wurts's  article  illustrates  this  type  of  expo- 
sition in  its  most  difficult  form — that  in  which  every 
technical  term  must  be  made  clear  to  a  popular  audience. 
It  is  one  thing  to  explain  a  machine  by  free  use  of  special 

20  phraseology  and  frequent  reference  to  diagrams ;  it  is 
quite  another  to  accomplish  the  feat  by  the  means  of 
familiar  Avords  and  comparisons.  This  writer  on  the 
protection  of  electrical  apparatus  from  lightning  begins  by 
defining  "the  static  or  disruptive   discharge,"  and  illus- 

25  trating  its  perforating  power  and  its  aptitude  for  "  side- 
flashing."  He  then  explains  how  in  a  thunder-storm  the 
air  and  high  objects  become  charged,  and  the  static 
discharge  is  likely  to  occur  on  wires.  Further  he  explains 
that  the  apparatus  of  which  the  wires  are  a  part  presents 

30  an  opportunity  for  the  discharge  to  side-flash  through 
insulation,  and  by  perforating  it  to  open  a  passage  for  the 
destructive  dynamo  current.  Having  placed  the  situation 
before  us, — summing  up  each  step  as  he  makes  it, — the 
author  proceeds  to  explain  the  remedies. 


t6B  EXPOSITION. 

37.— Marconi's  *GClirele60  tTelearapb.' 

CLEVELAND  MOFFETT. 

...  It  was  at  the  extreme  west  of  the  Isle  of 
Wight  that  I  got  my  first  practical  notion  of  how 
this  amazing  business  works.  Looking  down  from 
the  high  ground,  a  furlong  beyond  the  last  railway 
station,  I  saw  at  my  feet  the  horseshoe  cavern  of  5 
Alum  Bay,  a  steep  semicircle,  bitten  out  of  the  chalk 
cliffs,  one  might  fancy,  by  some  fierce  sea-monster, 
whose  teeth  had  snapped  in  the  eft'ort  and  been 
strewn  there  in  the  jagged  line  of  Needles.  These 
gleamed  up  white  now  out  of  the  waves,  and  pointed  lo 
straight  across  the  Channel  to  the  mainland.  On  the 
right  were  low-lying  reddish  forts,  waiting  for  some 
enemy  to  dare  their  guns.  On  the  left,  rising  bare 
and  solitary  from  the  highest  hill  of  all,  stood  the 
granite  cross  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  alone,  like  the  15 
man,  yet  a  comfort  to  weary  mariners. 

Here,  overhanging  the  bay,  is  the  Needles  Hotel, 
and  beside  it  lifts  one  of  Mr.  Marconi's  tall  masts, 
with  braces  and  halyards  to  hold  it  against  storm 
and  gale.  From  the  peak  hangs  down  a  line  of  wire  20 
that  runs  through  a  window  into  the  little  sending 
room,  where  we  may  now  see  this  mystery  of  talk- 
ing through  the  ether.  There  are  two  matter-of- 
fact  young  men  here  who  have  the  air  of  doing  some- 
thing that  is  altogether  simple.  One  of  them  25 
stands  at  a  table  with  some  instruments  on  it,  and 
works  a  black-handled  key  up  and  down.     He  is  say- 

>  Reprinted  from  McClure's  Magazine,  by  permission  of  Messrs. 
The  S.  S.  McClure  Company. 


MARCONI'S    WIRELESS   TELEGRAPH.        1^9 

ing  something  to  the  Poole  station,  over  yonder  in 
England,  eighteen  miles  away. 

"  Brripp — brripp — brripp — brrrrrr. 
5  Brripp — brripp — brripp — brrrrrr — 

Brripp — brrrrrr — brripp.     Brripp — brripp  ! " 

So  talks  the  sender  with  noise  and  deliberation. 
It  is  the  Morse  code  working — ordinary  dots  and 
dashes  which  can  be  made  into  letters  and  words,  as 
everybody  knows.     With  each  movement  of  the  key 

lo  bluish  sparks  jump  an  inch  between  the  two  brass 
knobs  of  the  induction  coil,  the  same  kind  of  coil 
and  the  same  kind  of  sparks  that  are  familiar  in  ex- 
periments with  the  Roentgen  rays.  For  one  dot,  a 
single  spark  jumps ;  for  one  dash  there  comes  a 

15  stream  of  sparks.  One  knob  of  the  induction  coil 
is  connected  with  the  earth,  the  other  with  the  wire 
hanging  from  the  masthead.  Each  spark  indicates 
a  certain  oscillating  impulse  from  the  electrical  bat- 
tery that  actuates  the  coil ;  each  one  of  these  impulses 

«o  shoots  through  the  aerial  wire,  and  from  the  wire 
through  space  by  oscillations  of  the  ether,  traveling 
at  the  speed  of  light,  or  seven  times  around  the  earth 
in  a  second.  That  is  all  there  is  in  the  sending  of 
these  Marconi  messages. 

25  "  I  am  giving  them  your  message,"  said  the  young 
man  presently,  "  that  you  will  spend  the  night  at 
Bournemouth  and  see  them  in  the  morning.  Any- 
thing more  ?  " 

"  Ask  them  what  sort  of  weather  they  are  hav- 

30  ing,"  said  I,  thinking  of  nothing  better. 

"  I've  asked  them,"  he  said,  and  then  struck  a 
vigorous  series  of  V's,  three  dots  and  a  dash,  to  show 
that  he  had  finished. 


170  EXPOSITIOh\ 

"  Now  I  switch  on  to  the  receiver,"  he  explained, 
and  connected  the  aerial  wire  with  an  instrument  in 
a  metal  box  about  the  size  of  a  valise.  "  You  see  the 
aerial  wire  serves  both  to  send  the  ether  waves  out 
and  to  collect  them  as  they  come  through  space.  5 
Whenever  a  station  is  not  sending,  it  is  connected 
to  receive." 

"  Then  you  can't  send  and  receive  at  the  same 
time?" 

"  We  don't  want  to.     We  listen  first,  and  then  lo 
talk.     There,  they're  calling  us.     Hear?" 

Inside  the  metal  box  a  faint  clicking  sounded,  like 
a  whisper  after  a  hearty  tone.  And  the  wheels  of  a 
Morse  printing  apparatus  straightway  began  to 
turn,  registering  dots  and  dashes  on  a  moving  tape.  15 

"  They  send  their  compliments,  and  say  they  vv'ill 
be  glad  to  see  you.  Ah,  here  comes  the  weather: 
'  Looks  like  snow.  Sun  is  blazing  on  us  at  pres- 
ent.' " 

It  is  worthy  of  note  that,  five  minutes  later,  it  be-  20 
gan  to  snow  on  our  side  of  the  Channel. 

"  I  must  tell  you,"  went  on  my  informant,  "  why 
the  receiver  is  put  in  this  metal  box.  It  is  to  pro- 
tect it  against  the  influence  of  the  sender,  which, 
you  observe,  rests  beside  it  on  the  table.  You  can  25 
easily  believe  that  a  receiver  sensitive  enough  to  re- 
cord impulses  from  a  point  eighteen  miles  away 
might  be  disorganized  if  these  impulses  came  from 
a  distance  of  two  or  three  feet.  But  the  box  keeps 
them  out."  30 

"  And  yet  it  is  a  metal  box?  " 

"  Ah,  but  these  waves  are  not  conducted  as  ordi- 
nary electric  waves  are.  These  are  Hertzian  waves, 
and  good  conductors  for  everyday  electricity  may 


MARCONTS    WIRELESS    TELEGRAPH.         171 

be  bad  conductors  for  them.  So  it  is  in  this  case. 
Yo\x  heard  the  receiver  work  just  now  for  the  mes- 
sage from  Poole,  yet  it  makes  no  sound  while  our 
own  sender  is  going.  But  look  here,  I  will  show 
,  you  something." 

He  took  up  a  little  buzzer  with  a  tiny  battery,  such 
as  is  used  to  ring  electric  bells.  "  Now  listen.  You 
see,  there  is  no  connection  between  this  and  the  re- 
ceiver." He  joined  two  wires  so  that  the  buzzer  be- 
•  gan  to  buzz,  and  instantly  the  receiver  responded, 
dot  for  dot,  dash  for  dash. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  you  have  the  whole  principle 
of  the  thing  right  before  you.  The  feeble  impulses 
of  this  buzzer  are  transmitted  to  the  receiver  in  the 
15  same  way  that  the  stronger  impulses  are  transmitted 
from  the  induction  coil  at  Poole.  Both  travel 
through  the  ether." 

"  Why  doesn't  the  metal  box  stop  these  feeble  im- 
pulses as  it  stops  the  strong  ones  of  your  own 
20  sender  ?  " 

"  It  does.  The  effect  of  the  buzzer  is  through  the 
aerial  wire,  not  through  the  box.  The  wire  is  con- 
nected with  the  receiver  now,  but  when  we  are  send- 
ing, it  connects  only  with  the  induction  coil,  and  the 
2b  receiver,  being  cut  ofif,  is  not  affected." 

"  Then  no  message  can  be  received  when  you  are 
sending?  " 

"  Not  at  the  very  instant.  But,  as  I  said,  we  al- 
ways switch  back  to  the  receiver  as  soon  as  we  have 
30  sent  a  message ;  so  another  station  can  always  get 
us  in  a  few  minutes.     There  they  are  again." 

Once  more  the  receiver  set  up  its  modest  clicking. 

"  They're  asking  about  a  new  coherer  Vv^e're  put- 
ting in,"  he  said,  and  proceeded  to  send  the  answer 


17*  EXPOSITION. 

back.  I  looked  out  across  the  water,  which  was 
duller  now  under  a  gray  sky.  There  was  something 
uncanny  in  the  thought  that  my  young  friend  here, 
who  seemed  as  far  as  possible  from  a  magician  or 
supernatural  being,  was  flinging  his  words  across  5 
this  waste  of  sea,  over  the  beating  schooners,  over 
the  feeding  cormorants,  to  the  dim  coast  of  England 
yonder. 

"  I  suppose  what  you  send  is  radiated  in  all  di- 
rections ?  "  10 

"  Of  course." 

"  Then    anyone   within    an    tighteen-mile    range 
might  receive  it?  " 

"  If  they  had  the  proper  kind  of  a  receiver."  And 
he  smiled  complacently,  which  drew  furthe^  ques- 15 
tions  from  me,  and  presently  we  were  discussing  the 
relay  and  the  tapper  and  the  twin  silver  plugs  in  the 
neat  vacuum  tube,  all  essential  parts  of  Marconi's 
instrument  for  catching  these  swift  pulsations  in  the 
ether.  The  tube  is  made  of  glass,  about  the  thick-  20 
ness  of  a  thermometer  tube  and  abou*  two  inches 
long.  It  seems  absurd  that  so  tiny  and  simple  an 
affair  can  come  as  a  boon  to  ships  and  armies  and  a 
benefit  to  all  mankind ;  yet  the  chief  virtue  of  Mar- 
coni's invention  lies  here  in  this  fragile  coherer.  35 
But  for  this,  induction  coils  would  snap  their  mes- 
sages in  vain,  for  none  could  read  them.  The  sil- 
ver plugs  in  this  coherer  are  so  close  together  that 
the  blade  of  a  knife  could  scarcely  pass  between 
them ;  yet  in  that  narrow  slit  nestle  several  hundred  30 
minute  fragments  of  nickel  and  silver,  the  finest  dust, 
siftings  through  silk,  and  these  enjoy  the  strange 
property  (as  Marconi  discovered)  of  being  alter- 
nately very  good  conductors  and  very  bad  conduct- 


MARCONI'S    WIRELESS   TELEGRAPH.         173 

ors  for  the  Hertzian  waves — very  good  conductors 
when  welded  together  by  the  passing  current  into  a 
continuous  metal  path,  very  bad  conductors  when 
they  fall  apart  under  a  blow  from  the  tapper.  One 
5  end  of  the  coherer  is  connected  with  the  aerial  wire, 
the  other  with  the  earth  and  also  with  a  home  bat- 
tery that  works  the  tapper  and  the  Morse  printing 
instrument. 

And  the  practical  operation  is  this :  When  the  im- 

lo  pulse  of  a  single  spark  comes  through  the  ether 
down  the  wire  into  the  coherer,  the  particles  of  metal 
cohere  (hence  the  name),  the  Morse  instrument 
prints  a  dot,  and  the  tapper  strikes  its  little  hammer 
against  the  glass  tube.     That  blow  decoheres  the 

15  particles  of  metal,  and  stops  the  current  of  the  home 
battery.  And  each  successive  impulse  through  the 
ether  produces  the  same  phenomena  of  coherence 
and  decoherence,  and  the  same  printing  of  dot  or 
dash.     The  impulses  through  the  ether  would  never 

20  be  strong  enough  of  themselves  to  work  the  printing- 
instrument  and  the  tapper,  but  they  are  strong 
enough  to  open  and  close  a  valve  (the  metal  dust), 
which  lets  in  or  shuts  out  the  stronger  current  of  the 
home  battery — all  of  which  is  simple  enough  after 

as  someone  has  taught  the  world  how  to  do  it. 

Notes. — This  journalistic  account  of  the  Marconi  tele 
graph  has  the  merit  of  a  vivid  method.  Being  aware 
that  machinery  and  technical  terms  are  orally  explained 
with  comparative  ease,  by  means  of  question  and  answer, 
30  the  writer  records  a  dialogue  which  occurred  at  the  tele- 
graph station.  He  assumes  that  the  questions  he  asked 
were  such  as  would  naturally  rise  to  the  lips  of  his  reader, 
in  similar  circumstances,  and  he  lives  over  the  scene  for 
the  benefit  of  the  reader.     First  he  describes  the  external 


174  EXPOSITION. 

appearance  of  the  machinery.  Then  he  proceeds  to  the 
general  principle  of  ether-waves,  on  which  the  apparatus 
depends,  and  finally  explains  the  essential  part  of  the 
machine,  the  coherer,  in  its  relation  to  this  principle. 


38.— trbe  ^own*/lReeting.' 

JOHN    FISKE. 

From  the  outset  the  government  of  the  town-  5 
ship  was  vested  in  the  Town-meeting, — an  institu- 
tion which  in  its  present  form  is  said  to  be  pecuHar 
to  New  England,  but  which,  as  w^e  shall  see,  has 
close  analogies  with  local  self-governing  bodies  in 
other  ages  and  countries.  Once  in  each  year — usu- 10 
ally  in  the  month  of  March — a  meeting  is  held,  at 
which  every  adult  male  residing  within  the  limits 
of  the  township  is  expected  to  be  present,  and  is  at 
liberty  to  address  the  meeting  or  to  vote  upon  any 
question  that  may  come  up.  ir 

In  the  first  years  of  the  colonies  it  seems  to  have 
been  attempted  to  hold  town-meetings  every  month, 
and  to  discuss  all  the  affairs  of  the  community  in 
these  assemblies ;  but  this  was  soon  found  to  be  a 
cumbrous  way  of  transacting  public  business,  and  as  2c 
early  as  1635  we  find  selectmen  chosen  to  administer 
the  affairs  of  the  township  during  the  intervals  be- 
tween the  assemblies.  As  the  system  has  perfected 
itself,  at  each  annual  town-meeting  there  are  chosen 
not  less  than  three  or  more  than  nine  selectmen,  ac-  25 
cording  to  the  size  of  the  township.  Besides  these, 
there  are  chosen  a  town-clerk,  a  town-treasurer,  a 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,   from  "  American 
Political  Ideas,"  copyright,  1885,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


THE    TOWN-MEETING.  175 

school-committee,  assessors  of  taxes,  overseers  of 
the  poor,  constables,  surveyors  of  highways,  fence- 
viewers,  and  other  officers.  In  very  small  town- 
ships the  selectmen  themselves  may  act  as  assessors 
5  of  taxes  or  overseers  of  the  poor.  The  selectmen 
may  appoint  police-officers  if  such  are  required ; 
they  may  act  as  a  board  of  health ;  in  addition  to 
sundry  specific  duties  too  numerous  to  mention  here, 
they  have  the  general  superintendence  of  all  public 

lo  business  save  such  as  is  expressly  assigned  to  the 
other  officers ;  and  whenever  circumstances  may 
seem  to  require  it  they  are  authorized  to  call  a  town- 
meeting.  The  selectmen  are  thus  the-  principal 
town-magistrates ;  and  through  the  annual  election 

15  their  responsibility  to  the  town  is  maintained  at  the 
maximum.  Yet  in  many  New  England  towns  re- 
election of  the  same  persons  year  after  year  has  very 
commonly  prevailed.  I  know  of  an  instance  where 
the  office  of  town-clerk  was  filled  by  three  members 

20  of  one  family  during  one  hundred  and  fourteen  con- 
secutive years. 

Besides  choosing  executive  officers,  the  town- 
meeting  has  the  power  of  enacting  by-laws,  of  mak- 
ing appropriations  of  money  for  town  purposes,  and 

25  of  providing  for  miscellaneous  emergencies  by  what 
might  be  termed  special  legislation.  Besides  the 
annual  meeting  held  in  the  spring  for  transacting  all 
this  local  business,  the  selectmen  are  required  to  call 
a  meeting  in  the  autumn  of  each  year  for  the  elec- 

3otion  of  State  and  county  officeTs,  each  second  year 
for  the  election  of  representatives  to  the  federal  Con- 
gress, and  each  fourth  year  for  the  election  of  the 
President  of  the  United  States. 
It  only  remains  to  add  that,  as  an  assembly  of  the 


1 7^  EXPOSITION. 

whole  people  becomes  impracticable  in  a  large  com- 
munity, so  when  the  population  of  a  township  has 
grown  to  ten  or  twelve  thousand,  the  town-meeting 
is  discontinued,  the  town  is  incorporated  as  a  city, 
and  its  affairs  are  managed  by  a  mayor,  a  board  of  5 
aldermen,  and  a  common  council,  according  to  the 
system  adopted  in  London  in  the  reign  of  Edward 
I.  In  America,  therefore,  the  distinction  between 
cities  and  towns  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  pres- 
ence or  absence  of  a  cathedral,  but  refers  solely  toio 
differences  in  the  communal  or  municipal  govern- 
ment. In  the  city  the  common  council,  as  a  rep- 
resentative body,  replaces  (in  a  certain  sense)  the 
town-meeting;  a  representative  government  is  sub- 
stituted for  a  pure  democracy.  But  the  city  officer-?,  15 
like  the  selectmen  of  towns,  are  elected  annually  ;  and 
in  no  case  (I  believe)  has  municipal  government 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  self-perpetuating  body,  as 
it  has  done  in  so  many  instances  in  England  owing 
to  the  unwise  policy  pursued  by  the  Tudors  and  20 
Stuarts  in  their  grants  of  charters. 

It  is  only  in  New  England  that  the  township  sys- 
tem is  to  be  found  in  its  completeness.  In  several 
Southern  and  Western  States  the  administrative 
unit  is  the  county,  and  local  affairs  are  man-  25 
aged  by  county  commissioners  elected  by  the 
people.  Elsewhere  we  find  a  mixture  of  the 
county  and  township  systems.  In  some  of  the 
Western  States  settled  by  New  England  people, 
town-meetings  are  held,  though  their  powers  are  30 
somewhat  less  extensive  than  in  New  England.  In 
the  settlement  of  Virginia  it  was  attempted  to  copy 
directly  the  parishes  and  vestries,  boroughs  and 
guilds  of  England.     But  in  the  Southern  States  gen- 


THE    TOWN-MEETING.  I77 

erally  the  great  size  of  the  plantations  and  the  wide 
dispersion  of  the  population  hindered  the  growth  of 
towns,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  have  an  admin- 
istrative unit  smaller  than  the  county.  As  Tocque- 
5  ville  said  fifty  years  ago,  "  the  farther  south  we  go 
the  less  active  does  the  business  of  the  township  or 
parish  become ;  the  population  exercises  a  less  imme- 
diate influence  on  affairs ;  the  power  of  the  elected 
magistrate  is  augmented  and  that  of  the  election  di- 

lominished,  while  the  public  spirit  of  the  local  com- 
munities is  less  quickly  awakened  and  less  influen- 
tial." This  is  almost  equally  true  to-day ;  yet  with 
all  these  differences  in  local  organization,  there  is  no 
part  of  our  country  in  which  the  spirit  of  local  self- 

» 5  government  can  be  called  weak  or  uncertain.  I 
have  described  the  Town-meeting  as  it  exists  in  the 
States  where  it  first  grew  up  and  has  since  chiefly 
flourished.  But  something  very  like  the  "  town- 
meeting  principle  "  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  po- 

zolitical  life  of  the  United  States.  To  maintain  vi- 
tality in  the  center  without  sacrificing  it  in  the  parts ; 
to  preserve  tranquillity  in  the  mutual  relations  of 
forty  powerful  States,  while  keeping  the  people 
everywhere  as  far  as  possible  in  direct  contact  with 

25  the  government ;  such  is  the  political  problem  which 
the  American  Union  exists  for  the  purpose  of  solv- 
ing; and  of  this  great  truth  every  American  citizen 
is  supposed  to  have  some  glimmering,  however 
crude. 

20  Notes. — This  exposition  of  a  political  institution  begins 
directly  with  a  statement  of  its  functions,  which  are  made 
the  clearer  by  a  glance  at  the  primitive  form  of  the  insti- 
tution. Having  thus  shown  what  the  institution  is,  the 
author  shows  what  it  is  not ;  he  marks  the  limits  of  the 


178  EXPOSITION. 

institution,  saying  when  the  town-meeting  ceases  to  be 
such  and  becomes  the  common  council.  In  this  para- 
graph, addressed  originally  to  a  British  audience,  the 
author  devotes  a  few  words  to  a  comparison  of  the  English 
common  council  with  the  American.  In  so  doing,  he  5 
observes  the  law  that  exposition  can  never  proceed  except 
in  terms  of  what  the  reader  already  knows.  Having 
defined  the  functions  and  limits  of  the  town-meeting,  he 
speaks  of  its  distribution  and  its  variants.  Doing  so 
leads  to  a  page  on  the  larger  political  significance  of  the  10 
institution,  the  principle  of  which  is  found  to  inhere  in  the 
American  federal  government. 


39.— tlbe  Coffee*1bou6e. 

THOMAS   BABINGTON    MACAULAY. 

The  coffee-house  must  not  be  dismissed  with  a 
cursory  mention.  It  might  indeed,  at  that  time, 
have  been  not  improperly  called  a  most  important  15 
political  institution.  No  parliament  had  sate  for 
years.  The  municipal  council  of  the  city  had  ceased 
to  speak  the  sense  of  the  citizens.  Public  meetings, 
harangues,  resolutions,  and  the  rest  of  the  modern 
machinery  of  agitation  had  not  3'et  come  into  fash-  20 
ion.  Nothing  resembling  the  modern  newspaper 
existed.  In  such  circumstances,  the  coffee-houses 
were  the  chief  organs  through  which  the  public 
opinion  of  the  metropolis  vented  itself. 

The  first  of  these  establishments  had  been  set  up,  25 
in  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth,  by  a  Turkey  mer- 
chant, who  had  acquired  among  the  Mahometans  a 
taste  for  their  favorite  beverage.  The  convenience 
of  being  able  to  make  appointments  in  any  part  of 
the  town,  and  of  being  able  to  pass  evenings  so- 


THE   COFFEE-HOUSE.  179 

cially  at  a  very  small  charge,  was  so  great  that  the 
fashion  spread  fast.  Every  man  of  the  upper  or 
middle  class  went  daily  to  his  coffee-house  to  learn 
the  news  and  to  discuss  it.     Every  coffee-house  had 

5  one  or  more  orators  to  whose  eloquence  the  crowd 
listened  with  admiration,  and  who  soon  became, 
what  the  journalists  of  our  own  time  have  been 
called,  a  fourth  estate  of  the  realm.  The  court  had 
long  seen  with  uneasiness  the  growth  of  this  new 

10  power  in  the  state.  An  attempt  had  been  made, 
during  Danby's  administration,  to  close  the  coffee- 
houses. But  men  of  all  parties  missed  their  usual 
places  of  resort  so  much  that  there  was  a  universal 
outcry.     The  government  did  not  venture,  in  oppo- 

15  sition  to  a  feeling  so  strong  and  general,  to  enforce 
a  regulation  of  which  the  legality  might  well  be 
questioned.  Since  that  time  ten  years  had  elapsed, 
and,  during  those  years,  the  number  and  influence  of 
the  coffee-houses   had   been  constantly   increasing. 

20  Foreigners  remarked  that  the  coffee-house  was  that 
which  especially  distinguished  London  from  all  other 
cities ;  that  the  coffee-house  was  the  Londoner's 
home,  and  that  those  who  wished  to  find  a  gentleman 
commonly   asked,    not    whether   he    lived    in    Fleet 

25  Street  or  Chancery  Lane,  but  whether  he  frequented 
the  Grecian  of  the  Rainbow.  Nobody  was  excluded 
from  these  places  who  laid  down  his  penny  at  the 
bar.  Yet  every  rank  and  profession  and  every  shade 
of  religious  and  political  opinion  had  its  own  head- 

30  quarters.  There  were  houses  near  St.  James  Park 
where  fops  congregated,  their  heads  and  shoulders 
covered  with  black  or  flaxen  wigs,  not  less  ample 
than  those  which  are  now  worn  by  the  chancellor 
and  by  the  speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons.     The 


l8o  EXPOSITION. 

wig  came  from  Paris,  and  so  did  the  rest  of  the  fine 
gentleman's  ornaments,  his  embroidered  coat,  his 
fringed  gloves,  and  the  tassel  which  upheld  his  pan- 
taloons. The  conversation  was  in  that  dialect 
which,  long  after  it  had  ceased  to  be  spoken  in  fash-  5 
ionable  circles,  continued,  in  the  mouth  of  Lord 
Foppington,  to  excite  the  mirth  of  theaters.  The 
atmosphere  was  like  that  of  a  perfumer's  shop.  To- 
bacco in  any  other  form  than  that  of  richly  scented 
snuff  was  held  in  abomination.  If  any  clown,  igno- 10 
rant  of  the  usages  of  the  house,  called  for  a  pipe,  the 
sneers  of  the  whole  assembly  and  the  short  answers 
of  the  waiters  soon  convinced  him  that  he  had  better 
go  somewhere  else.  Nor,  indeed,  would  he  have 
had  far  to  go.  For,  in  general,  the  coffee-rooms  15 
reeked  with  tobacco  like  a  guard  room ;  and  stran- 
gers sometimes  expressed  their  surprise  that  so  many 
people  should  leave  their  own  firesides  to  sit  in  the 
midst  of  eternal  fog  and  stench.  Nowhere  was  the 
smoking  more  constant  than  at  Will's.  That  cele-  2c 
brated  house,  situated  between  Covent  Garden  and 
'Bow  Street,  was  sacred  to  polite  letters.  There  the 
talk  was  about  poetical  justice  and  the  unities  of 
place  and  time.  There  was  a  faction  for  Perrault 
and  the  modems,  a  faction  for  Boileau  and  the  an- 25 
cients.  One  group  debated  whether  Paradise  Lost 
ought  not  to  have  been  in  rhyme.  To  another  an  en- 
vious poetaster  demonstrated  that  Venice  Preserved 
ought  to  have  been  hooted  from  the  stage.  Under 
no  roof  was  a  greater  variety  of  figures  to  be  seen,  30 
— earls  in  stars  and  garters,  clergymen  in  cassock* 
and  bands,  pert  templars,  sheepish  lads  from  the 
universities,  translators  and  index-makers  in  ragged 
coats  of  frieze.     The  great  press  was  to  get  near  the 


THE  COFFEEHOUSE,  i8i 

chair  where  John  Dryden  sate.  In  winter,  that 
chair  was  always  in  the  warmest  nook  by  the  fire ;  in 
summer,  it  stood  in  the  balcony.  To  bow  to  him, 
and  to  hear  his  opinion  of  Racine's  last  tragedy  or  of 
5  Bossu's  treatise  on  epic  poetry,  was  thought  a  privi- 
lege. A  pinch  from  his  snuff-box  was  an  honor 
sufficient  to  turn  the  head  of  a  young  enthusiast. 
There  were  coffee-houses  where  the  first  medical 
men  might  be  consulted.     Doctor  John  Radcliffe, 

lowho,  in  the  year  1685,  rose  to  the  largest  practice  in 
London,  came  daily,  at  the  hour  when  the  Exchange 
was  full,  from  his  house  in  Bow  Street,  then  a  fash- 
ionable part  of  the  capital,  to  Garraway's,  and  was 
to  be  found  surrounded  by  surgeons  and  apothe- 

15  caries  at  a  particular  table.  There  were  Puritan 
coffee-houses  where  no  oath  was  heard,  and  where 
lank-haired  men  discussed  election  and  reprobation 
through  their  noses ;  Jew  coffee-houses  where  dark- 
eyed  money-changers  from  Venice  and  Amsterdam 

20 greeted  each  other;  and  Popish  coffee-houses  where, 
as  good  Protestants  believed,  Jesuits  planned,  over 
their  cups,  another  great  fire,  and  cast  silver  bullets 
to  shoot  the  king. 

— History  of  England. 

Notes. — Mr.  Fiske's  description  of  the  town-meeting, 
25  though  containing  more  or  less  historical  narration, 
manages  with  almost  no  description.  As  a  contrast  in 
this  respect  we  may  note  Macaulay's  picturesque  exposi- 
tion of  the  coffee-house.  Here  is  the  expository  method 
of  historical  narrative,  enriched  with  descriptive  imagery 
30  in  every  sentence. 


i82  EXPOSITION. 

40.— G;be  dflrst  B>erfoD  ot  Oreeft  art.' 

WALTER   PATER. 

This  whole  first  period  of  Greek  art  might,  indeed, 
be  called  the  period  of  graven  images,  and  all  its 
workmen  sons  of  Daedalus ;  for  Daedalus  is  the 
mythical,  or  all  but  mythical,  representative  of  all 
those  arts  which  are  combined  in  the  making  of  love-  5 
Her  idols  than  had  heretofore  been  seen.  The  old 
Greek  word  which  is  at  the  root  of  the  name 
Daedalus,  the  name  of  a  craft  rather  than  a  proper 
name,  probably  means  to  work  curiously — all  curi- 
ously beautiful  wood-work  is  Daedal  work ;  the  main  10 
point  about  the  curiously  beautiful  chamber  in  which 
Nausicaa  sleeps,  in  the  Odyssey,  being  that,  like 
some  exquisite  Swiss  chalet,  it  is  wrought  in  wood. 
But  it  came  about  that  those  workers  in  wood,  whom 
Daedalus  represents,  the  early  craftsmen  of  Crete  es- 15 
pecially,  were  chiefly  concerned  with  the  making  of 
religious  images,  like  the  carvers  of  Berchtesgaden 
and  Oberammergau,  the  sort  of  daintily  finished 
images  of  the  objects  of  public  or  private  devotion 
which  such  workmen  would  turn  out.  Wherever  20 
there  was  a  wooden  idol  in  any  way  fairer  than 
others,  finished,  perhaps,  sometimes,  with  color  and 
gilding,  and  appropriate  real  dress,  there  the  hand 
of  Daedalus  had  been.  That  such  images  were  quite 
detached  from  pillar  or  wall,  that  they  stood  free,  25 
and  were  statues  in  the  proper  sense,  showed  that 
Greek  art  was  already  liberated  from  its  earlier 
Eastern  associations ;  such  free-standing  being  ap- 

'  Reprinted  from  "  Greek  Studies,"  by  permission  of  Messrs.  The 
Macmillan  Company. 


THE  FIRST  PERIOD   OF  CREEK  ART.       183 

parently  unknown  in  Assyrian  art.  And  then,  the 
effect  of  this  Daedal  skill  in  them  was,  that  they  came 
nearer  to  the  proper  form  of  humanity.  It  is  the 
wonderful  life-likeness  of  these  early  images  which 
5  tradition  celebrates  in  many  anecdotes,  showing  a 
very  early  instinctive  turn  for,  and  delighi  in  natur- 
alism, in  the  Greek  temper.  As  Cimabue,  in  his  day, 
was  able  to  charm  men,  almost  as  with  iJusion,  by 
the  simple  device  of  half-closing  the  eyelids  of  his 

10  personages,  and  giving  them,  instead  of  round  eyes, 
eyes  that  seemed  to  be  in  some  degree  sentient, 
and  to  feel  the  lights ;  so  the  marvelous  progress  in 
those  Daedal  wooden  images  was,  that  the  eyes  were 
open,  so  that  they  seemed  to  look, — the  feet  sepa- 

15  rated,  so  that  they  seemed  to  walk.  Greek  art  is 
thus,  almost  from  the  first,  essentially  distinguished 
from  the  art  of  Egypt,  by  an  energetic  striving  after 
truth  in  organic  form.  In  representing  the  human 
figure,  Egyptian  art  had  held  by  mathematical  or 

20  mechanical  proportions  exclusively.  The  Greek  ap- 
prehends of  it,  as  the  main  truth,  that  it  is  a  living 
organism,  with  freedom  of  movement,  and  hence  the 
infinite  possibilities  of  motion,  and  of  expression  by 
motion,    with    which    the    imagination    credits    the 

25  higher  sort  of  Greek  sculpture ;  while  the  figures  of 
Egyptian  art,  graceful  as  they  often  are,  seem  abso- 
lutely incapable  of  any  motion  or  gesture,  other  than 
the  one  actually  designed.  The  work  of  the  Greek 
sculptor,  together  with  its  more  real  anatomy,  be- 

30  comes  full  also  of  human  soul. 

Notes. — In  this  passage  of  historical  exposition,  early 
Greek  art  is  contrasted  with  early  Eastern  art.  Just  as 
we  found  descriptive  imagery  heightened  by  juxtaposition 
with  descriptive  imagery,  now  we  find  principles  height* 


1 84  EXPOSITION. 

ened  by  contrast  with  principles.  Here  likewise  we  find 
the  contrast  strengthened  by  chosen  detail.  In  description, 
two  individuals  may  be  compared  with  respect  to  selected 
particulars,  and  in  exposition  two  classes  of  individuals 
may  so  be  treated.  It  will  be  noted  that,  in  comparing 
one  class  of  individuals  with  another,  an  author  is  inci- 
dentally applying  the  method  of  limits  or  exclusion  ;  he  is 
not  only  intensifying  the  notion  of  the  given  class,  but  is 
telling  what  the  class  is  not. 


41.— Tuscan  Sculpture. 

VERNON    LEE. 

These  men  brought,  therefore,  to  the  cutting  of  lo 
marble  a  degree  of  skill  and  knowledge  of  which  the 
ancients  had  no  notion,  as  they  had  no  necessity. 
In  their  hands  the  chisel  was  not  merely  a  second 
modeling  tool,  molding  delicate  planes,  uniting  in- 
sensibly broad  masses  of  projection  and  depression.  15 
It  was  a  pencil,  which,  according  as  it  was  held, 
could  emphasize  the  forms  in  sharp  hatchings  or 
let  them  die  away  unnoticed  in  subdued,  impercep- 
tible washes.     It  was  a  brush  which  could  give  the 
texture  and  the  values  of  the  color — a  brush  dipped  20 
in  various  tints  of  light  and  darkness,  according  as 
it  poured  into  the  marble  the  light  and  the  shade, 
and  as  it  translated  into  polishings  and  rovigh  hew- 
ings  and  granulations  and  every  variety  of  cutting, 
the  texture  of  flesh,  of  hair,  and  of  drapery ;  of  the  25 
blond  hair  and  flesh  of  children,  the  coarse  flesh  and 
bristly  hair  of  old  men,  the  draperies  of  wool,  of 
linen,  and  of  brocade.     The  sculptors  of  Antiquity 
took  a  beautiful  human  being — a  youth  in  his  per- 


TUSCAN  SCULPTURE.  185 

feet  flower,  with  limbs  trained  by  harmonious  exer- 
cise and  ripened  by  exposure  to  the  air  and  sun — 
and,  correcting  whatever  was  imperfect  in  his  in- 
dividual forms  by  their  hourly  experience  of  simi- 
5  lar  beauty,  they  copied  in  clay  as  much  as  clay  could 
give  of  his  perfections:  the  subtle  proportions,  the 
majestic  ampleness  of  masses,  the  delicate  finish  of 
limbs,  the  harmonious  play  of  muscles,  the  serene 
simplicity  of  look  and  gesture,  placing  him  in  an 
10  attitude  intelligible  and  graceful  from  the  greatest 
possible  distance  and  from  the  largest  variety  of 
points  of  view.  And  they  preserved  this  perfect 
piece  of  loveliness  by  handing  it  over  to  the  faithful 
copyist  in  marble,  to  the  bronze,  which,  more  faith- 
is  ful  still,  fills  every  minutest  cavity  left  by  the  clay. 
Being  beautiful  in  himself,  in  all  his  proportions  and 
details,  this  man  of  bronze  or  marble  was  beautiful 
wherever  he  was  placed  and  from  wheresoever  he 
was  seen ;  whether  he  appeared  foreshortened  on  a 
20  temple  front,  or  face  to  face  among  the  laurel  trees, 
whether  shaded  by  a  portico,  or  shining  in  the  blaze 
of  the  open  street.  His  beauty  must  be  judged  and 
loved  as  we  should  judge  and  love  the  beauty  of  a 
real  human  being,  for  he  is  the  closest  reproduction 
25  that  art  has  given  of  beautiful  reality  placed  in  re- 
ality's real  surroundings.  He  is  the  embodiment  of 
the  real  strength  and  purity  of  youth,  untroubled  by 
the  moment,  independent  of  place  and  of  circum- 
stance. 
30  Of  such  perfection,  born  of  the  rarest  meeting  of 
happy  circumstances.  Renaissance  sculpture  knows 
nothing.  A  lesser  art,  for  painting  was  then  what 
sculpture  had  been  in  Antiquity ;  bound  more  or  less 
closely  to  the  service  of  architecture ;  surrounded  by 


t86  EXPOSITION'. 

ill-grown,  untrained  bodies;  distracted  by  ascetic 
feelings  and  scientific  curiosities,  the  sculpture  of 
Donatello  and  Mino,  of  Jacopo  della  Querela  and 
Desidirio  da  Settingnano,  of  Michelangelo  himself, 
was  one  of  those  second  artistic  growths  which  use  5 
up  the  elements  that  have  been  neglected  or  rejected 
by  the  more  fortunate  and  vigorous  efflorescence 
which  has  preceded.  It  failed  in  everything  in 
which  antique  sculpture  had  succeeded;  it  accom- 
plished what  antiquity  had  left  undone.  Its  sense  of  10 
bodily  beauty  was  rudimentary ;  its  knowledge  of  the 
nude  alternately  insufficient  and  pedantic ;  the  forms 
of  Donatello's  David  and  of  Benedetto's  St.  John  are 
clumsy,  stunted,  and  inharmonious ;  even  Michel- 
angelo's Bacchus  is  but  a  comely  lout.  This  sculp-  15 
ture,  has,  moreover,  a  marvelous  preference  for  ugly 
old  men — gross,  or  ascetically  imbecile ;  and  for  ill- 
grown  striplings :  except  the  St.  George  of  Dona- 
tello, whose  body,  however,  is  entirely  incased  in  in- 
flexible leather  and  steel,  it  never  gives  us  the  per-  20 
fection  and  pride  of  youth.  These  things  are  obvi- 
ous, and  set  us  against  the  art  as  a  whole.  But  see 
it  when  it  does  what  Antiquity  never  attempted ; 
Antiquity  which  placed  statues  side  by  side  in  a 
gable,  balancing  one  another,  but  not  welded  into  25 
one  pattern ;  which  made  relief  the  mere  repetition  of 
one  point  of  view  of  the  round  figure,  the  shadow 
of  the  gable  group ;  which,  until  its  decline,  knew 
nothing  of  the  pathos  of  old  age,  of  the  grotesque 
exquisiteness  of  infancy,  of  the  endearing  av/k-30 
wardness  of  adolescence ;  which  knew  nothing  of  the 
texture  of  the  skin,  the  silkiness  of  the  hair,  the 
color  of  the  eye. 

—JRcnaissance  Fancies  and  Studies. 


PLASTIC  NATURE   OF  GREEK  ART.         187 

Notes. — Here  the  method  of  historical  exposition  by 
comparison  is  applied  to  the  later,  the  full-blown,  art  of 
Greek  sculpture,  and  to  the  reflorescence  of  sculpture  in 
Tuscany.  In  applying  it,  Vernon  Lee  introduces  a  great 
5  number  of  details  and  summarizes  them  frequently.  For 
example,  after  a  page  narrating  minutely  the  ancient 
method  of  handling  a  subject,  she  critically  sums 
up  the  result  thrice  in  succession  :  the  Greek  statue  is 
"  the  closest  reproduction  that  art  has  given  of  beautiful 

10  reality "  ;  it  is  "the  embodiment  of  the  strength  and 
purity  of  youth  ";  it  is  "  perfection,  born  of  rarest  meeting 
of  happy  circumstances."  The  passage  deserves  study 
for  the  way  in  which  it  economizes  the  reader's  memory. 
Instead  of  completing  first  one  side  of   the  picture,  then 

15  the  other,  it  makes  the  comparison  point  by  point.  First 
the  Tuscans  have  half  a  paragraph  of  pure  explanation, 
then  the  Greeks  a  similar  amount  ;  then  the  Tuscans  re- 
ceive half  a  paragraph  of  adverse  criticism,  followed  by 
a  similar  amount  of  favorable.     It  may  be   added  that 

ao  the  justice  is  remarkably  even-handed  in  fact  as  well  as 
in  form. 


42.— (Tbe  plastic  mature  of  ©reck  Brt  and  ©ratorg.' 

R.    C.   JEBB. 

Let  us  take  a  moment  of  the  period  when,  as  a 

matter  of  fact,  the  creative  activity  of  Greek  art  was 

abundant — say  440   b.   c. — and   consider   what,   at 

'-5  that   moment,   was    the   principal    characteristic   of 

Greek  reflection.*     This  will  be  best  understood  by 

1  Reprinted  from  "  The  Attic  Orators,''  bj'  permission  of  Messrs. 
The  Macmillan  Company. 

*The  essay  on  Winckelmann,  in  Mr.  W.  H.  Pater's 
"  Studies  in  the  History  of  the  Renaissance,"  is  the  most 
perfect  interpretation  of  the  Greek  spirit  in  art  that  I 


1 88  EXPOSITION. 

a  comparison  with  two  other  characters  of  thought : 
that  which  has  belonged,  though  in  a  multitude  of 
special  shapes,  to  the  East,  and  that  of  mediaeval 
Europe.  Oriental  thought,  as  interpreted  by  Ori- 
ental art,  fails  to  define  humanity  or  to  give  a  clear-  5 
cut  form  to  any  material  which  the  senses  offer  to  it. 
Life  is  conceived  only  generally,  as  pervading  men, 
animals  and  vegetables,  but  the  distinctive  attributes 
of  human  life,  physical  or  spiritual,  are  not  pondered 
or  appreciated.  The  human  form,  the  human  soul,  lo 
are  not,  to  this  Eastern  thought,  the  objects  of  an 
absorbing  and  analyzing  contemplation.  To  Euro- 
pean medisevalism,  they  are  so ;  but  the  body  is  re- 
garded as  the  prison  and  the  shame  of  the  soul ;  and 
mediaeval  art  expresses  the  burning  eagerness  of  the  15 
soul  to  escape  from  this  prison  to  a  higher  com- 
munion. The  three  marks  of  mediaeval  art  are  in- 
dividualism, desire,  and  ecstacy:  individualism, 
since  the  artist  is  struggling  to  interpret  a  personal 
intensity,  and  goes  to  grotesqueness  in  the  effort ;  20 
desire,  since  the  perpetual  longing  of  the  Church  on 
earth  for  her  Master  is  the  type  of  the  artist's  pas- 
sion ;  ecstasy,  since  this  passion  demands  the  sur- 
render of  reason  and  has  its  climax  in  the  adora- 
tion of  a  mystery  revealed.*  Between  the  Oriental  25 
and  the  Mediaeval  art  stands  the  Greek.  Greek  art 
defines  humanity,  the  body  and  the  soul  of  man. 

know.  If  the  restatement  of  some  of  its  points  should 
gain  for  it  fresh  students,  such  a  separation  of  its  teaching 
from  its  beauty  may  deserve  to  be  forgiven.  30 

*  I  have  not  at  hand  an  article  on  (I  think)  Mr.  Rossetti's 
poems,  which  appeared  some  years  ago  in  the  Westmin- 
ster Review,  and  in  which  these  traits  of  mediaevalism 
were  very  finely  delineated. 


PLASTIC  NATURE   OF  GREEK  ART.  189 

But  it  ha3  not  reached  the  mediaeval  point ;  it  has  not 
learned  to  feel  that  the  body  is  the  prison  and  the 
shame  of  the  soul.  Rather,  it  regards  the  soul  as 
reflecting  its  own  divinity  upon  the  body.  "  What 
5  a  piece  of  work  is  man !  how  noble  in  reason !  how 
infinite  in  faculty !  in  form  and  moving  how  express 
and  admirable !  in  action  how  like  an  angel !  in  appre- 
hension how  like  a  god !  the  beauty  of  the  world ! 
the  paragon  of  animals !  "     If  Hamlet  could  have 

10  stopped  there,  he  would  have  been  a  Greek ;  but  he 
could  not,  he  was  sick  with  a  modern  distemper, 
abandonment  to  the  brooding  thought  that  sapped 
his  will.*  The  Greek  of  the  days  when  art  was  su- 
preme could  and  did  stop  there ;  he  was  Narcissus, 

15  standing  on  the  river-bank,  looking  into  the  deep, 
clear  waters  where  the  mirror  of  his  image  shows  the 
soul,  too,  through  the  eyes,  Narcissus  in  love  with 
the  image  that  he  beholds, — but  Narcissus  as  yet 
master  of  himself, — as  yet  with  a  firm  foothold  upon 

20  the  bank,  not  as  yet  possessed  by  the  delirious  im- 
pulse to  plunge  into  the  depths.  Here,  then,  was  the 
first  condition  for  the  possibility  of  a  great  art.  Re- 
flection had  taken  the  right  direction,  had  got  far 
enough,  but  had  not  got  too  far;  it  was  a  pause. 

25  But,  in  order  that  this  pause  should  be  joyous,  and 
that  the  mind  should  not,  from  weariness  or  disap- 
pointment, hasten  forward,  another  thing  was  neces- 
sary— that  men  and  women  should  be  beautiful.  By 
some  divine  chance,  the  pause  in  reflection  coincided 

30  with  the  physical  perfection  of  a  race ;  and  the  re- 
sult was  Greek  art. 

.    .    .    Since,  as  has  been  seen.  Oratory  was  fof 
the  Greeks  a  fine  art,  it  follows  that  Greek  Oratory 
*  Dowden,  "  Shakspere's  Mind  and  Art,"  p.  47. 


I90  EXPOSITION. 

must  have,  after  its  own  kind,  that  same  typical 
character  which  belongs  to  Greek  Sculpture  and  to 
Greek  Tragedy.  Wherein,  then,  does  it  manifest 
this  character?  We  must  here  be  on  our  guard 
against  the  great  stumbling-block  of  such  inquiries,  5 
the  attempt  to  find  the  analogy  in  the  particulars 
and  not  in  the  whole.  It  might  be  possible  to  take 
a  speech  of  Demosthenes  and  to  work  out  the  de- 
tails of  a  correspondence  with  a  tragedy  of 
Sophocles  or  a  work  of  Pheidias ;  but  such  refine- 10 
ments  have  usually  a  perilous  neighborhood  to  fan- 
tasy, and,  even  when  they  are  legitimate,  are  apt  to 
be  more  curious  than  instructive.  How  truly  and 
universally  Greek  Oratory  bears  the  plastic  stamp, 
can  be  seen  only  when  it  is  regarded  in  its  largest  15 
aspects.  The  first  point  to  be  observed  is  that,  in 
Greek  Oratory,  we  have  a  series  of  types  developed 
by  a  series  of  artists,  each  of  whom  seeks  to  give  to 
his  own  type  the  utmost  clearness  and  distinction 
that  he  is  capable  of  reaching.  The  same  thing  is  20 
true  of  Tragedy,  but  not  in  the  same  degree ;  for,  in 
Tragedy,  the  element  of  consecrated  convention  was 
more  persistent ;  and,  besides.  Oratory  stood  in  such 
manifold  and  intimate  relations  with  the  practical 
life  that  the  artist,  in  expressing  his  oratorical  25 
theory,  could  express  his  entire  civic  personality. 
Hence  the  men  who  molded  Attic  Oratory,  whether 
statesmen  or  not,  are  good  examples  of  conscious 
obedience  to  that  law  of  Greek  nature  which  con- 
strained every  man  to  make  himself  a  living  work  of  30 
art.  "  In  its  poets  and  orators,"  says  Hegel,*  "  its 
historians  and  philosophers,  Greece  cannot  be  con- 

*  "  Aesthetik,"  Part   III.  'Section   2,  ch,    i,  quoted  by 
Pater,  p.  192. 


PLASTIC  NATURE   OF  GREEK  ART.         191 

ceived  from  a  central  point  unless  one  brings,  as  a 
key  to  the  understanding  of  it,  an  insight  into  the 
ideal  forms  of  sculpture,  and  regards  the  images  of 
statesmen  and  philosophers  as  well  as  epic  and  dra- 
5  matic  heroes  from  the  artistic  point  of  view ;  for 
those  who  act,  as  well  as  those  who  create  and  think, 
have,  in  those  beautiful  days  of  Greece,  this  plastic 
character.  They  are  great  and  free,  and  have 
grown  up  on  the  soil  of  their  own  mdividuality, 

10  creating  themselves  out  of  themselves,  and  molding 
themselves  to  what  they  were  and  willed  to  be. 
The  age  of  Pericles  was  rich  in  such  characters: 
Pericles  himself,  Pheidias,  Plato,  above  all  Sopho- 
cles,  Thucydides    also,    Xenophon    and    Socrates, 

15  each  in  his  own  order,  without  the  perfection  of 
one  being  diminished  by  that  of  the  others.  They 
are  ideal  artists  of  themselves,  cast  each  in  one  flaw- 
less mold — works  of  art  which  stand  before  us  as  an 
immortal  presentment  of  the  gods." 

20  The  plastic  character  of  Greek  oratory, — thus 
seen,  first  of  all,  in  the  finished  distinction  of  succes- 
sive types,  clearly  modeled  as  the  nature  that 
wrought  them, — is  further  seen  in  the  individual 
oration.     Take  it  whence  we  will,  from  the  age  of 

25  Antiphon  or  of  Demosthenes,  from  the  forensic, 
from  the  deliberative  or  from  the  epideictic  class, 
two  great  characteristics  will  be  found.  First, 
however  little  of  sustained  reasoning  there  may  be, 
however  much  the  argument  may  be  mingled  with 

30  appeals,  reminiscences,  or  invectives,  everything 
bears  on  the  matter  in  hand.  It  is  an  exertion  of 
art,  but  of  art  strictly  pertinent  to  its  scope.  No 
Greek  orator  could  have  written  such  a  speech  as 
that  of  Cicero  For  Archias  or  For  Publius  Sextii§, 


192  EXPOSITION. 

In  a  Greek  speech  the  main  hnes  of  the  subject  are 
ever  firm ;  they  are  never  lost  amid  the  flowers  of  a 
picturesque  luxuriance.  Secondly,  wherever  pity, 
terror,  anger,  or  any  passionate  feeling  is  uttered  or 
invited,  this  tumult  is  resolved  in  a  final  calm;  and  5 
where  such  tumult  has  place  in  the  peroration,  it 
subsides  before  the  last  sentences  of  all.  The  end- 
ing of  the  speech  On  the  Crown — which  will  be  no- 
ticed hereafter  * — is  exceptional  and  unique.  As  a 
rule,  the  very  end  is  calm ;  not  so  much  because  the  10 
speaker  feels  this  to  be  necessary  if  he  is  to  leave  an 
impression  of  personal  dignity,  but  rather  because 
the  sense  of  an  ideal  beauty  in  humanity  and  in  hu- 
man speech  governs  his  effort  as  a  whole,  and  makes 
him  desire  that,  where  this  effort  is  most  distinctly  15 
viewed  as  a  whole — namely,  at  the  close — it  should 
have  the  serenity  of  a  completed  harmony.  Cicero 
has  now  and  then  an  Attic  peroration,  as  in  the 
Second  Philippic  and  the  Pro  Milone ;  more  often  he 
breaks  off  in  a  burst  of  eloquence — as  in  the  First  20 
Catilinarian,  the  Pro  Flacco  and  the  Pro  Cluentio. 
Erskine's  concluding  sentences  in  his  defense  of 
Lord  George  Gordon  are  Attic : — "  Such  topics 
might  be  useful  in  the  balance  of  a  doubtful  case ; 
yet,  even  then,  I  should  have  trusted  to  the  honest  25 
hearts  of  Englishmen  to  have  felt  them  without  ex- 
citation. At  present  the  plain  and  rigid  rules  of 
justice  are  sufficient  to  entitle  me  to  your  verdict." 

Notes. — This  illuminating  piece  of  historical  and  critical 
exposition  is  like  the  two  preceding  passages  on  sculpture  30 
in  using  the  comparative  method.  It  differs  from  them  in 
two  respects.  First,  it  applies  at  some  length  a  philo- 
sophical principle.  It  compares  oriental  art  with  Greek  and 
*Vol.  II.  pp.  416-17. 


EDUCATION  IN  DEMOCRATIC  SOCIETY.      193 

with  mediasval  by  applying  the  test  of  self-consciousness.' 
The  power  of  the  metaphor  of  Narcissus  will  not  escape 
the  student.  Secondly,  it  applies  at  some  length,  as  a  sort 
of  running  simile,  the  principles  of  Greek  sculpture,  which 
5  it  has  just  expounded,  to  the  subject  of  Greek  oratory. 
The  effectiveness  of  this  device  is  obvious. 


43.— ttbe  function  of  EOucatton  in  Democratic 
Socictg.^ 

CHARLES   W.    ELIOT. 

What  the  function  of  education  shall  be  in  a  de- 
mocracy will  depend  on  what  is  meant  by  demo- 
cratic education. 

10  Too  many  of  us  think  of  education  for  the  people 
as  if  it  meant  only  learning  to  read,  write,  and  ci- 
pher. Now,  reading,  writing,  and  simple  ciphering 
are  merely  the  tools  by  the  diligent  use  of  which  a 
rational  education  is  to  be  obtained  through  years 

15  of  well-directed  labor.  They  are  not  ends  in  them- 
selves, but  means  to  the  great  end  of  enjoying  a  ra- 
tional existence.  Under  any  civilized  form  of  gov- 
ernment, these  arts  ought  to  be  acquired  by  every 
child  by  the  time  it  is  nine  years  of  age.     Compe- 

20  tent  teachers,  or  properly  conducted  schools,  now 
teach  reading,  writing,  and  spelling  simultaneously, 
so  that  the  child  writes  every  word  it  reads,  and,  of 
course,  in  writing  spells  the  word.  Ear,  eye,  and 
hand  thus  work  together  from  the  beginning  in  the 

25  acquisition  of  the  arts  of  reading  and  writing.     As 

'  The  advanced  student  will  be  interested  in  tracing 
Hegel's  influence  on  the  late  Mr.  Pater  and  on  Professor 
Jebb. 

'Reprinted  from  "  Educational  Reform,"  by  permission  of  Messrs. 
The  Century  Company. 


194  EXPOSITION. 

to  ciphering,  most  educational  experts  have  become 
convinced  that  the  amount  of  arithmetic  which  an 
educated  person  who  is  not  some  sort  of  computer 
needs  to  make  use  of  is  but  small,  and  that  real  edu- 
cation should  not  be  delayed  or  impaired  for  5 
the  sake  of  acquiring  a  skill  in  ciphering  which  will 
be  of  little  use  either  to  the  child  or  to  the  adult. 
Reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic,  then,  are  not  the 
goal  of  popular  education. 

The  goal  in  all  education,  democratic  or  other,  is  10 
always  receding  before  the  advancing  contestant,  as 
the  top  of  a  mountain  seems  to  retreat  before  the 
climber,  remoter  and  higher  summits  appearing  suc- 
cessively   as    each    apparent    summit    is    reached. 
Nevertheless,  the  goal  of  the  moment  in  education  15 
is  always  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  the  training 
of  some  permanent  capacity  for  productiveness  or 
enjoyment,    and    the    development    of    character. 
Democratic  education  being  a  very  new  thing  in  the 
world,  its  attainable  objects  are  not  yet  fully  per-  2c? 
ceived.     Plato  taught  that  the  laborious  classes  in  a 
model  commonwealth  needed  no  education  whatever. 
That  seems  an  extraordinary  opinion  for  a  great 
philosopher  to  hold ;  but,  while  we  wonder  at  it,  let 
us  recall  that  only  one  generation  ago  in  some  of  our  25 
Southern  States  it  was  a  crime  to  teach  a  member 
of  the  laborious  class  to  read.     In  feudal  society 
education  was  the  privilege  of  some  of  the  nobility 
and  clergy,  and  was  one  source  of  the  power  of  these 
two  small  classes.     Universal  education  in  Germany  30 
dates  only  from  the  Napoleonic  wars;  and  its  object 
has  been  to  make  intelligent  soldiers  and  subjects, 
rather  than  happy  freemen.     In  England  the  system 
of  pubhc  instruction  is  but  twenty-seven  years  old. 


EDUCATION  IN  DEMOCRATIC  SOCIETY.      195 

Moreover  the  fundamental  object  of  democratic 
education — to  lift  the  whole  population  to  a  higher 
plane  of  intelligence,  conduct,  and  happiness — has 
not  yet  been  perfectly  apprehended  even  in  the 
5  United  States.  Too  many  of  our  own  people  think 
of  popular  education  as  if  it  were  only  a  protection 
against  dangerous  superstitions,  or  a  measure  of  po- 
lice, or  a  means  of  increasing  the  national  produc- 
tiveness  in  the  arts  and  trades.     Our   generation 

TO  may,  therefore,  be  excused  if  it  ha&  but  an  incom- 
plete vision  of  the  goal  of  education  in  a  democracy. 
I  proceed  to  describe  briefly  the  main  elements  of 
instruction  and  discipline  in  a  democratic  school. 
As  soon  as  the  easy  use  of  what  I  have  called  the 

15  tools  of  education  is  acquired,  and  even  while  this 
familiarity  is  being  gained,  the  capacity  for  pro- 
ductiveness and  enjoyment  should  begin  to  be 
trained  through  the  progressive  acquisition  of  an 
elementary  knowledge  of  the  external  world.     The 

20  democratic  school  should  begin  early — in  the  very 
first  grades — the  study  of  nature ;  and  all  its  teachers 
should,  therefore,  be  capable  of  teaching  the  ele- 
ments of  physical  geography,  meteorology,  botany, 
and  zoology,  the  whole  forming  in  the  child's  mind 

25  one  harmonious  sketch  of  its  complex  environment. 
This  is  a  function  of  the  primary-school  teacher 
which  our  fathers  never  thought  of,  but  which  every 
passing  year  brings  out  more  and  more  clearly  as  a 
prime  function  of  every  instructor  of  little  children. 

30  Somewhat  later  in  the  child's  progress  toward  ma- 
turity the  great  sciences  of  chemistry  and  physics 
will  find  place  in  its  course  of  systematic  training. 
From  the  seventh  or  eighth  year,  according  to  the 
quality  and  capacity  of  the  child,  plane  and  solid 


196  EXPOSITION. 

geometry,  the  science  of  form,  should  find  a  place 
among  the  school  studies,  and  some  share  of  the 
child's  attention  that  great  subjects  should  claim  for 
six  or  seven  successive  years.  The  process  of  mak- 
ing acquaintance  with  external  nature  through  the  "5 
elements  of  these  various  sciences  should  be  inter- 
esting and  enjoyable  for  every  child.  It  should  not 
be  painful,  but  delightful ;  and  throughout  the  proc- 
ess the  child's  skill  in  the  arts  of  r-^ading,  writing, 
and  ciphering  should  be  steadily  developed.  ^o 

There  is  another  part  of  every  child's  environ- 
ment with  which  he  should  early  begin  to  make  ac- 
quaintance, namely,  the  human  part.  The  story  of 
the  human  race  should  be  gradually  conveyed  to  the 
child's  mind  from  the  time  he  begins  to  read  with  15 
pleasure.  This  story  should  be  conveyed  quite  as 
much  through  biography  as  through  history;  and 
with  the  descriptions  of  facts  and  real  events  should 
be  entwined  charming  and  uplifting  products  of  the 
imagination.  I  cannot  but  think,  however,  that  the  20 
wholly  desirable  imaginative  literature  for  children 
remains,  in  large  measure,  to  be  written.  The  myth- 
ologies. Old  Testament  stories,  fairy  tales,  and  his- 
torical romances  on  which  we  are  accustomed  to  feed 
the  childish  mind  contain  a  great  deal  that  is  per-  25 
verse,  barbarous,  or  trivial;  and  to  this  infiltration 
into  children's  minds,  generation  after  genera- 
tion, of  immoral,  cruel,  or  foolish  ideas,  is  probably 
to  be  attributed,  in  part,  the  s-low  ethical  progress 
of  the  race.  The  common  justification  of  our  prac-3t> 
tice  is  that  children  do  not  apprehend  the  evil  in  the 
mental  pictures  with  which  we  so  rashly  supply 
them.  But  what  should  we  think  of  a  mother  who 
gave  her  child  dirty  milk  or  porridge,  on  the  theory 


EDUCATION  IN  DEMOCRATIC  SOCIETY.      I97 

that  the  child  would  not  assimilate  the  dirt  ?  Sbould 
we  be  less  careful  of  mental  and  moral  food-ma- 
terials ?  It  is,  howevei ,  as  undesirable  as  it  is  im- 
possible to  try  to  feed  the  minds  of  children  only 
5  upon  facts  of  observation  or  record.  The  immense 
product  of  the  imagination  in  art  and  literature  is 
a  concrete  fact  with  which  every  educated  human  be- 
ing should  be  made  somewhat  familiar,  such  prod- 
ucts being  a  very  real  part  of  every  individual's  ac- 

lotual  environment. 

Into  the  education  of  the  great  majority  of  chil- 
dren there  enters  as  an  important  part  their  con- 
tribution to  the  daily  labor  of  the  household  and  the 
farm,  or,  at  least,  of  the  household.     It  is  one  of  the 

15  serious  consequences  of  the  rapid  concentration  of 
population  into  cities  and  large  towns,  and  of  the 
minute  division  of  labor  which  characterizes  mod- 
ern industries,  that  this  wholesome  part  of  education 
is  less  easily  secured  than  it  used  to  be  when  the 

20  greater  part  of  the  population  was  engaged  in  agri- 
culture. Organized  education  must,  therefore,  sup- 
ply in  urban  communities  a  good  part  of  the  man- 
ual and  moral  training  which  the  co-operation  of 
children  in  the  work  of  father  and  mother  affords  in 

25  agricultural  communities.  Hence  the  great  impor- 
tance in  any  urban  population  of  facilities  for  train- 
ing children  to  accurate  hand-work,  and  for  teach- 
ing them  patience,  forethought,  and  good  judgment 
in  productive  labor. 

30  Lastly,  the  school  should  teach  every  child,  by  pre- 
cept, by  example,  and  by  every  illustration  its  read- 
ing can  supply,  that  the  supreme  attainment  for  any 
individual  is  vigor  and  loveliness  of  character.  In- 
dustry, persistence,  veracity  in  word  and  act,  gentle- 


1^8  EXPOSITION. 

ness,  and  disinterestedness  should  be  made  to  thrive 
and  blossom  during  school  life  in  the  hearts  of  the 
children  who  bring  these  virtues  from  their  homes 
well  started,  and  should  be  planted  and  tended  in 
the  less  fortunate  children.  Furthermore,  the  pu-  5 
pils  should  be  taught  that  what  is  virtue  in  one  hu- 
man being  is  virtue  in  any  group  of  human  beings, 
large  or  small — a  village,  a  city,  or  a  nation ;  that  the 
ethical  principles  which  should  govern  an  empire  are 
precisely  the  same  as  those  which  should  govern  an  10 
individual;  and  that  selfishness,  greed,  falseness, 
brutality,  and  ferocity  are  as  hateful  and  degrading 
in  a  multitude  as  they  are  in  a  single  savage. 

The  education  thus  outlined  is  what  I  think 
should  be  meant  by  democratic  education.  It  ex- 15 
ists  to-day  only  among  the  most  intelligent  people, 
or  in  places  singularly  fortunate  in  regard  to  the 
organization  of  their  schook;  but  though  it  be  the 
somewhat  distant  ideal  of  democratic  education, 
it  is  by  no  means  an  unattainable  ideal.  It  20 
is  the  reasonable  aim  of  the  public  school  in  a 
thoughtful  and  ambitious  democracy.  It,  of  course, 
demands  a  kind  of  teacher  much  above  the  elemen- 
tary-school teacher  of  the  present  day,  and  it  also 
requires  a  larger  expenditure  upon  the  public  school  25 
than  is  at  all  customary  as  yet  in  this  country.  But 
that  better  kind  of  teacher  and  that  larger  expendi- 
ture are  imperatively  called  for,  if  democratic  in- 
stitutions are  to  prosper,  and  to  promote  continu- 
ously the  real  welfare  of  the  mass  of  the  people.  30 
The  standard  of  education  should  not  be  set  at  the 
now  attained  or  the  now  attainable.  It  is  the  privi- 
lege of  public  education  to  press  toward  a  mark  re- 
mote. 


EDUCATION  IN  DEMOCRATIC  SOCIETY.      1 99 

Notes.— This  selection  and  the  following  one  are  of  the 
tjrpe  of  exposition  which  is  related  to  persuasion.  Presi- 
dent Eliot  is  trying  to  influence  opinion  in  such  a  way  as 
to  further  educational  reform.  But  since  the  subject  is 
5  essentially  intellectual  in  its  nature,  he  wisely  makes  no 
appeal  to  the  emotions  :  he  does  not  draw  a  prophetic 
picture  of  misery  for  those  parents  who  allow  their  chil- 
dren to  grow  up  without  a  knowledge  of  nature  and  life. 
Yet  the  very  word  "Function,"  in  the  title,  conceals  an 

lo  indirect  appeal ;  it  means  true  function,  ideal  function, 
function  that  ought  to  be  made  possible  and  operative  in 
civilized  life.  The  aim  of  the  piece  being  clear,  we  may 
note  the  organic  nature  of  the  whole.  The  author  begins 
with  a  statement  that  the  true  function  of  education  in  a 

15  democrac}' depends  on  what  is  meant  by  democratic  educa- 
tion. He  proceeds  to  a  definition  of  democratic  education, 
first  by  exclusion,  telling  what  it  is  not  ;  it  is  not  merely 
reading,  writing,  and  ciphering.  It  is  something  more  and 
better  ;  how  much  more  and  better  the  author  of  course 

20  intends  to  show.  But  first  he  prepares  the  way ;  in  a 
historical  paragraph  he  explains  by  the  similes  of  a  goal 
and  a  receding  mountain  range  that  education  is  steadily 
becoming  something  more  and  better.  This,  it  is  clear,  is 
conciliatory  exposition.     He  then  sets  forth  the  main  ele- 

25  ments  of  a  truly  democratic  school.  They  are,  instruction 
in  nature,  the  child's  physical  environment ;  instruction  in 
history  and  literature,  significant  subjects  to  the  child  in 
his  human  environment  ;  instruction  in  manual  training, 
another  necessity  of  the  physical  environment ;  and  instruc- 

30  tion  in  character,  another  necessity  of  the  human  environ- 
ment. The  diction  of  the  passage  is  referred  to  on  page 
206. 


200  EXPOSITION. 

44.— Causes  of  ^Failure.' 

BENJAMIN   JOWETT. 

And  now  leaving  these  life  failures,  as  I  may  call 
them,  I  will  ask  why  there  are  so  many  failures  at 
the  university  (it  is  the  privilege  of  the  preacher  to 
wander  from  one  topic  to  another,  in  the  hope  that 
he  may  say  something  which  comes  home  to  the  5 
minds  of  his  hearers  "be  it  ever  so  homely"). 
First,  among  the  causes  of  failure  at  the  University, 
I  should  be  inclined  to  place  "  neglect  of  health." 
Young  men  are  seldom  aware  how  easily  the  brain 
may  be  overtasked ;  how  delicate  and  sensitive  this  lo 
organ  is  in  many  individuals ;  they  are  apt  to  think 
they  can  do  what  others  do ;  they  work  the  mind  and 
the  body  at  the  same  time — when  they  begin  to  fail 
they  only  increase  the  effort,  and  nothing  can  be 
more  foolish  than  this.  They  do  not  understand  i5 
how  to  manage  themselves,  as  the  phrase  is ;  the 
common  rules  of  diet  and  exercise  are  hardly 
thought  of  by  them :  "  I  can  work  so  much  better  at 
night  "  is  the  constant  reply  to  the  physician  or 
elder  friend  who  remonstrates ;  and  they  are  apt  to  20 
be  assured  that  no  practice  which  is  pleasant  to  them 
can  ever  be  injurious  to  health.  They  find  the 
memory  fail,  the  head  no  longer  clear;  the  interest 
in  study  flags ;  and  they  attribute  these  symptoms 
to  some  mysterious  cause  with  which  they  have  25 
nothing  to  do.  Will  they  hear  the  words  of  the 
Apostle  ?  "  He  that  striveth  for  masteries  is  tem- 
perate in  all  things  " :  yet  it  is  a  more  subtle  kind 

•  Reprinted  from  "  College  Sermons,"  by  permission  of  Messrs. 
The  Macmillan  Company. 


CAUSES  OF  FAILURE.  261 

of  training  than  that  of  the  athlete,  in  which  they 
must  exercise  themselves,  a  training  which  regulates 
and  strengthens  body  and  mind  at  once.  Again 
let  them  listen  to  the  words  of  St.  Paul,  "  Wherefore 

i  5  whether  we  eat  or  drink,  let  us  do  all  to  the  glory  of 
God."  The  care  of  his  own  health  and  morals  is 
the  greatest  trust  which  is  committed  to  a  young 
man ;  and  often  and  often  the  loss  of  ability,  the  de- 
generacy of  character,  the  want  of  self-control  is 

lo  due  to  his  neglect  of  them. 

There  are  other  ways  in  which  this  want  of  self- 
knowledge  shows  itself.  Many  men  have  serious 
intellectual  defects  which  they  never  attempt  to 
cure,  and  therefore  carry  them  into  life  instead  of 

15  leaving  them  behind  at  school  or  college.  Let  me 
take  for  example  one  such  defect — inaccuracy.  A 
student  cannot  write  a  few  sentences  of  Latin  or 
Greek,  he  cannot  get  through  a  simple  sum  of  arith- 
metic, without  making  a  slip  at  some  stage  of  the 

20  process,  because  he  loses  his  attention.  Year  after 
year  he  goes  on  indulging  this  slovenly  habit  of 
mind ;  the  remonstrances  of  teachers  are  of  no  avail ; 
he  will  not  take  the  pains  to  be  cured ;  the  inaccu- 
rate desultory  knowledge  of  many  things  is  more 

25  acceptable  to  his  mind  than  the  accurate  knowledge 
of  a  few,  and  so  he  grows  up  and  goes  into  life  unfit 
for  any  intellectual  calling,  unfit  for  any  business  or 
profession.  Then  again  there  is  another  kind  of 
inaccuracy  which  consists  in  ignorance  of  the  first 

30 principles  or  beginnings  of  things;  when  the  stu- 
dent has  to  go  back  not  without  difficulty,  for  there 
is  always  a  painfulness  and  awkwardness  in  learning 
last  what  ought  to  have  been  learned  first.  We  all 
know   what    is   meant   by   a   man   being   "  a   bad 


202  EXPOSITION. 

scholar,"  which  to  one  who  has  studied  Latin  and 
Greek  for  ten  or  more  years  of  his  life  is  justly  held 
to  be  a  reproach.  And  there  are  bad  scholars,  not 
only  among  students  of  Latin  and  Greek,  but  in 
every  department  of  knowledge,  in  Mathematics  as  5 
well  as  in  Classics,  in  Natural  Science  as  well  as  in 
Literature,  in  Law  as  well  as  in  History ;  there  are 
students  who  have  no  power  of  thinking,  no  clear 
recollection  of  what  they  have  read,  no  exact  per- 
ception of  the  meaning  of  words.  10 

There  is  another  intellectual  defect  very  common 
in  youth,  yet  also  curable,  if  not  always  by  our- 
selves, at  any  rate  by  the  help  of  others — "  bad 
taste  " — which  takes  many  forms  both  in  speaking 
and  writing:  when  a  person  talks  about  himself,  15 
when  he  affects  a  style  of  language  unsuited  to  him, 
or  to  his  age  and  position,  when  he  discourses  au- 
thoritatively to  his  elders,  when  he  is  always  asking 
questions,  when  his  words  grate  upon  the  feelings 
of  well-bred  and  sensible  men  and  women,  then  he  20 
is  guilty  of  bad  taste.  Egotism  or  conceit  is  often 
the  source  of  this  bad  taste  in  conversation;  it  may 
sometimes  arise  only  from  simplicity  and  ignorance 
of  the  world.  There  are  natures  who  are  always 
dreaming  of  full  theaters,  of  audiences  hanging  on  25 
their  lips,  who  would  like  to  receive  for  all  their  ac- 
tions the  accompanying  meed  of  approbation.  A 
young  person  is  about  to  make  a  speech — it  is  one 
of  the  most  important  things  that  he  can  do  in  life 
(and  one  of  the  most  trying) — when  many  persons  30 
are  listening  to  his  words  and  he  a  weak  swimmer 
far  out  to  sea ;  he  has  prepared  what  he  is  going  to 
say,  tricked  out  his  oration  with  metaphors  and 
figures  of  speech ;  he  has  seen  himself  speaking, 


CAUSES  OF  FAILURE.  203 

not  exactly  in  the  looking-glass,  but  in  the 
glass  of  his  own  mind ;  and  lo !  the  result  is  a 
miserable  failure.  He  has  mistaken  his  own  pow- 
ers, he  has  struck  a  wrong  note,  pitched  his  speech 
sin  a  false  key.  What  can  be  more  humiliating? 
Yet,  perhaps,  it  is  also  the  very  best  lesson  which  he 
has  ever  had  in  life.  Let  him  try  again — (there 
was  one  who  said  that  he  had  tried  at  many  things 
and  had  always  succeeded  at  last).     Let  him  try 

10  again,  and  not  allow  himself  by  a  little  innocent 

merriment  to  be  deprived  of  one  of  the  greatest 

and  most  useful  accomplishments  which  any  man 

can  possess ;  the  power  of  addressing  an  audience. 

There  is  another  kind  of  bad  taste  which  is  dis- 

15  played,  not  in  manners  nor  in  speech,  but  in  writing. 

As  persons  have  a  difficulty  in  knowing  their  own 

characters,  so  has  a  writer  in  judging  of  his  own 

compositions.     Writings  are  like  children,  whom  a 

parent  can  never  regard  in  the  same  impartial  man- 

20  ner  in  which  they  are  viewed  by  strangers.  We 
too  easily  grow  fond  of  them.  There  are  many 
faults  which  are  apt  to  beset  men  when  they  take 
a  pen  in  their  hands.  They  attempt  fine  writing, 
which  of  all  kinds  of  writing  is  the  worst ;  they  lose 

25  the  sense  of  proportion ;  they  deem  anything  which 
they  happen  to  know  relevant  to  the  subject  in  hand. 
They  pay  little  or  no  attention  to  the  most  important 
of  all  principles  of  composition — "  logical  connec- 
tion."    They  sometimes  imitate  the  language  of  fa- 

3omous  writers,  such  as  Lord  Macaulay  or  Carlyle, 
and  with  a  ludicrous  result,  because  they  cease  to  be 
themselves,  and  the  attempt  even  if  it  were  worth 
making  cannot  be  sustained.  It  was  excellent  ad- 
vice that  was  once  given  to  a  young  writer,  "  Al- 


204  EXPOSITION. 

ways  to  blot  the  finest  passages  of  his  own  writ- 
ings " ;  and  any  one  of  us  will  do  well  to  regard 
with  suspicion  any  simile  or  brilliant  figufe  of 
speech,  which  impairs  the  connection  or  disturbs 
the  proportion  of  the  whole.  For  in  the  whole  is  5 
contained  the  real  excellence  of  a  writing,  in  the 
paragraph,  not  in  the  sentence ;  in  the  chapter,  not 
in  the  paragraph ;  in  the  book,  rather  than  in  the 
chapter.  And  the  character  of  the  writer  dimly 
seen  may  be  often  greater  than  the  book  which  he  lo 
has  written. 

Yet  once  more  cause  of  failure  in  our  lives  here 
may  be  briefly  spoken  of — the  want  of  method  or 
order.  Men  do  not  consider  suflficiently,  not  merely 
what  is  suited  to  the  generality,  but  what  is  suited  15 
to  themselves  individually.  They  have  different 
gifts  and  therefore  their  studies  should  take  a  dif- 
ferent course.  One  man  is  capable  of  continuous 
thought  and  reading,  while  another  has  not  the  full 
use  of  his  faculties  for  more  than  an  hour  or  two  at  20 
a  time.  It  is  clear  that  persons  so  differently  con- 
stituted should  proceed  on  a  different  plan.  Again, 
one  man  is  gifted  with  powers  of  memory  and  ac- 
quisition, another  with  thought  and  reflection ;  it  is 
equally  clear  that  there  ought  to  be  a  corresponding  25 
difference  in  the  branches  of  study  to  which  they  de- 
vote themselves.  Things  are  done  in  half  the  time 
and  with  half  the  toil  when  they  are  done  upon  a 
well-considered  system ;  when  there  is  no  waste  and 
nothing  has  to  be  unlearned.  As  mechanical  forces  30 
pressed  into  the  service  of  man  increase  a  hundred- 
fold more  and  more  his  bodily  strength,  so  does  the 
use  of  method, — of  all  the  methods  which  science 
has  already  invented  (for  as  actions  are  constantly 


CAUSES  OF  FAILURE.  205 

passing  into  habits,  so  is  science  always  being  con- 
verted into  method), — of  all  the  methods  which  an 
individual  can  devise  for  himself,  enlarge  and  ex- 
tend the  mind.  And  yet  how  rarely  does  anyone 
5  ever  make  a  plan  of  study  for  himself — or  a  plan  of 
his  own  life. 

Let  me  illustrate  the  subject  of  which  I  am  speak- 
ing from  the  sphere  of  business.  Suppose  a  per- 
son of  ability  to  be  engaged  in  the  management  of  a 

10  great  institution — such  as  a  public  school,  or  a 
manufactory — will  not  his  first  aim  be  to  organize 
such  an  institution  in  the  fittest  manner?  He  will 
consider  how  the  w^ork  which  he  has  to  do  will  be 
carried  on  in  the  shortest  time,  at  the  least  cost  and 

15  with  the  smallest  expenditure  of  labor.  He  will  see 
his  own  objects  clearly,  and  from  time  to  time  he 
will  apply  proper  methods  of  comparison  and 
examination  which  will  enable  him  to  discover 
whether  they  are  being  carried  out.     He  will  not 

20  devote  himself  to  small  matters  which  can  be  done 
by  others.  He  will  know  whom  to  trust ;  he  will 
seize  upon  the  main  points,  and  above  all  he  will 
avoid  waste. 

Now  there  may  be  a  waste  in  study  as  well  as  in 

25  business :  such  a  waste,  for  example,  is  the  idleness 
of  reading  when  we  sit  in  an  armchair  by  the  fire 
and  receive  passively  the  impression  of  books  with- 
out thought,  without  judgment,  without  any  effort 
of  "  what  we  are  pleased  to  call  '  our  minds.'  "     We 

30  may  learn  Latin  and  Greek  in  such  a  manner  that 
we  never  acquire  any  real  sense  of  the  meaning  of 
words  or  constructions,  but  only  remember  how  they 
are  to  be  translated  in  a  particular  passage.  Can 
this  be  called  education  ?     So  we  may  learn  history 


2o6  EXPOSITION. 

in  such  a  fashion  that  we  only  recollect  dates  and 
facts  and  have  no  sense  of  the  laws  which  pervade 
it,  or  interest  in  the  human  beings  who  are  the  ac- 
tors in  it :  Is  not  this  again  a  waste  of  time  ?  Lastly, 
in  philosophy,  that  study  which  has  so  great  an  in-  5 
terest  for  us  at  a  certain  time  of  life,  which  makes  a 
sort  of  epoch  in  the  mental  history  of  many,  from 
which  we  are  likely  to  experience  the  greatest  good 
and  the  greatest  harm ;  in  philosophy  we  m.ay  go  on 
putting  words  in  the  place  of  things,  unlearning  lo 
instead  of  learning,  losing  definiteness  and  clearness 
in  the  extent  of  the  prospect  opening  upon  us,  until 
we  are  fairly  overmastered  by  it,  seeming  to  have 
acquired  new  powers  of  thought  so  vast  that  they 
prevent  us  from  thinking  for  ourselves,  or  express- 15 
ing  ourselves  like  other  men :  "  And  this  also  is 
vanity." 

Notes. — This   section  of  a  college  sermon  by  the  late 
master  of  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  the  famous  translator 
of  Plato,  is  even  more  persuasive  in  aim  than  the  preced-  20 
ing  selection  from  President  Eliot,  and  even  more  careful 
than  that  to  avoid  direct  appeal.     To  any  but  students, — 
and  even  to  some  students, — the  subject  might  seem  trivial 
for  a  sermon  ;  but  it  is  immediately  lifted  by  the  sermon 
into  high  significance.     Jowett  shows  that  it  concerns  each  25 
of    the  audience   deeply,   and   with   true  respect   for  his 
hearers  he  rigorously  restrains  himself  from  exhortation. 
The  fewness  of  the  illustrations  is  noteworthy  ;  the  speaker 
rightly  supposes  that  what  he  says  will  be  perfectly,  even 
painfully,  intelligible  to  most  of  his  hearers.     The  diction  30 
of  this  passage,  and  of  the  two  immediately  preceding,  is 
noticeable  for  scrupulous  simplicity.      Not  many  men  of 
our  time  have  succeeded  so  well  as  Professor  Jebb,  Presi- 
dent  Eliot,   and  Professor  Jowett    in    making  ordinary 
words  yield  up  their  exactest  force.     The  quality  is  rare  in  35 
any  age  ;  iX'iz  the  Attic  purity,  the  bvo[ia  Kvpiov  of  Lysias. 


THE    TWO  RACES  OF  MEN.  207 

45.— Cbe  (Two  IRaccs  ot  /IB en. 

CHARLES   LAMB. 

The  human  species,  according  to  the  best  theory  I 
can  form  of  it,  is  composed  of  two  distinct  races,  the 
men  who  borrow,  and  the  men  who  lend.  To  these 
two  original  diversities  may  be  reduced  all  those  im- 

5  pertinent  classifications  of  Gothic  and  Celtic  tribes, 
white  men,  black  men,  red  men.  All  the  dwellers 
upon  earth,  "  Parthians,  and  Medes,  and  Elamites," 
flock  hither,  and  do  naturally  fall  in  with  one  or 
other  of  these  primary  distinctions.    The  infinite  su- 

10  periority  of  the  former,  which  I  choose  to  designate 
as  the  great  race,  is  discernible  in  their  figure,  port, 
and  a  certain  instinctive  sovereignty.  The  latter 
are  born  degraded.  "  He  shall  serve  his  brethren." 
There  is  something  in  the  air  of  one  of  this  cast,  lean 

15  and  suspicious;  contrasting  with  the  open,  trusting, 
generous  manners  of  the  other. 

Observe  who  have  been  the  greatest  borrowers  of 
all  ages — Alcibiades — FalstafT — Sir  Richard  Steele 
— our  late  incomparable   Brinsley — what  a  family 

20 likeness  in  all  four! 

What  a  careless,  even  deportment  hath  your  bor- 
rowers! what  rosy  gills!  what  a  beautiful  reliance 
on  Providence  doth  he  manifest, — taking  no  more 
thought  than  lilies!     What  contempt  for  money, — 

25  accounting  it  (yours  and  mine  especially)  no  better 
than  dross!  What  a  liberal  confounding  of  those 
pedantic  distinctions  of  meum  and  tuum!  or  rather, 
what  a  noble  simplification  of  language  (beyond 
Tooke),  resolving  these  supposed  opposites  into  one 

30 clear,  intelligible  pronoun  adjective! — What  near 


208  EXPOSITION. 

approaches  doth  he  make  to  the  primitive  com- 
munity, — to  the  extent  of  one-half  of  the  principle 
at  least! — 

He  is  the  true  taxer  "  who  calleth  all  the  world  up 
to  be  taxed ;  "  and  the  distance  is  as  vast  between  5 
him  and  one  of  us,  as  subsisted  betwixt  the  Au- 
gustan Majesty  and  the  poorest  obolary  Jew  that 
paid   it  tribute-pittance  at  Jerusalem ! — His  exac- 
tions, too,  have  such  a  cheerful,  voluntary  air !     So 
far  removed  from  your  sour  parochial  or  state-gath-  10 
erers, — those  ink-horn  varlets,  who  carry  their  want 
of  welcome  in  their  faces !     He  cometh  to  you  with 
a  smile  and  troubleth  you  with  no  receipt ;  confin- 
ing himself  to  no  set  season.     Every  day  is  his  Can- 
dlemas, or  his  Feast  of  Holy  Michael.     He  applieth  15 
the  lene  tormentum  of  a  pleasant  look  to  your  purse, 
— which  to  that  gentle  warmth  expands  her  silken 
leaves,  as  naturally  as  the  cloak  of  the  traveler,  for 
which  sun  and  wind  contended !     He  is  the  true 
Propontic    which    never    ebbeth !     The    sea    which  20 
taketh  handsomely  at  each  man's  hand.     In  vain 
the  victim,  whom  he  delighteth  to  honor,  struggles 
with   destiny ;   he   is   in   the   net.     Lend   therefore 
cheerfully,  O  man  ordained  to  lend — that  thou  lose 
not  in  the  end,  with  thy  worldly  penny,  the  reversion  25 
promised.     Combine    not    preposterously    in    thine 
own  person  the  penalties  of  Lazarus  and  of  Dives ! 
— but,  when  thou  seest  the  proper  authority  coming, 
meet  it  smilingly,  as  it  were  half-way.     Come,  a 
handsome  sacrifice !     See  how  light  he  makes  of  it !  30 
Strain  not  courtesies  with  a  noble  enemy. 

Reflections  like  the  foregoing  were  forced  upon 
my  mind  by  the  death  of  my  old  friend,  Ralph  Bi- 
god,  Esq.,  who  departed  this  life  on  Wednesday 


THE    TWO  RACES  OF  MEN.  209 

evening ;  dying,  as  he  had  lived,  without  much  trou- 
ble. He  boasted  himself  a  descendant  from  mighty 
ancestors  of  that  name,  who  heretofore  held  ducal 
dignities  in  this  realm.  In  his  actions  and  senti- 
5  ments  he  belied  not  the  stock  to  which  he  pretended. 
Early  in  life  he  found  himself  invested  with  ample 
revenues ;  which  with  that  noble  disinterestedness 
which  I  have  noticed  as  inherent  in  men  of  the  great 
race,  he  took  almost  immediate  measures  entirely  to 

10  dissipate  and  bring  to  nothing :  for  there  is  some- 
thing revolting  in  the  idea  of  a  king  holding  a  pri- 
vate purse;  and  the  thoughts  of  Bigod  were  all  re- 
gal. Thus  furnished  by  the  very  act  of  disfurnish- 
ment ;  getting  rid  of  the  cumbersome  luggage  of 

15  riches,  more  apt  (as  one  sings) 

"  To  slacken  virtue,  and  abate  her  edge, 
Than  prompt  her  to  do  aught  may  merit  praise," 

he  sets  forth,  like  some  Alexander,  upon  his  great 
enterprise,  "  borrowing  and  to  borrow !  " 

30  In  his  periegesis,  or  triumphant  progress 
throughout  this  island,  it  has  been  calculated  that  he 
laid  a  tithe  part  of  the  inhabitants  under  contribu- 
tion. I  reject  this  estimate  as  greatly  exaggerated : 
but   having  had   the   honor  of  accompanying  my 

25  friend,  divers  times,  in  his  perambulations  about  this 
vast  city,  I  own  I  was  greatly  struck  at  first  with  the 
prodigious  number  of  faces  we  met,  who  claimed  a 
sort  of  respectful  acquaintance  with  us.  He  was 
one  day  so  obliging  as  to  explain  the  phenomenon. 

30  It  seems,  these  were  his  tributaries ;  feeders  of  his 
exchequer;  gentlemen,  his  good  friends  (as  he  was 
pleased  to  express  himself),  to  whom  he  had  occa- 
sionally been  beholden  for  a  loan.     Their  multitudes 


2IO  EXPOSITION. 

did  no  way  disconcert  him.  He  rather  took  a  pride 
in  numbering  them;  and,  with  Comus,  seemed 
pleased  to  be  "  stocked  with  so  fair  a  herd." 

With  such  sources,  it  was  a  wonder  how  he  con- 
trived to  keep  his  treasury  always  empty.  He  did  5 
it  by  force  of  an  aphorism,  which  he  had  often  in 
his  mouth,  that  "  money  kept  longer  than  three  days 
stinks."  So  he  made  use  of  it  while  it  was  fresh. 
A  good  part  he  drank  away  (for  he  was  an  excel- 
lent toss-pot),  some  he  gave  away,  the  rest  he  threw  10 
away,  literally  tossing  and  hurling  it  violently  from 
him — as  boys  do  burrs,  or  as  if  it  had  been  infec- 
tious,— into  ponds,  or  ditches,  or  deep  holes, — in- 
scrutable cavities  of  the  earth: — or  he  would  bury 
it  (where  he  would  never  seek  it  again)  by  a  river's  15 
side  under  some  bank,  which  (he  would  facetiously 
observe)  paid  no  interest — ^but  out  away  from  him  it 
must  go  peremptorily,  as  Hagar's  offspring  into  the 
wilderness,  while  it  was  sweet.  He  never  missed  it. 
The  streams  were  perennial  which  fed  his  fisc.  20 
When  new  supplies  became  necessary,  the  first  per- 
ison  that  had  the  felicity  to  fall  in  with  him,  friend  or 
stranger,  was  sure  to  contribute  to  the  deficiency. 
For  Bigod  had  an  undeniable  way  with  him.  He 
had  a  cheerful,  open  exterior,  a  quick  jovial  eye,  a  25 
bald  forehead,  just  touched  with  gray  {cana  Udes). 
He  anticipated  no  excuse,  and  found  none.  And, 
waiving  for  a  while  my  theory  as  to  the  great  race, 
I  would  put  it  to  the  most  untheorizing  reader,  who 
may  at  times  have  disposable  coin  in  his  pocket,  30 
whether  it  is  not  more  repugnant  to  the  kindliness 
of  his  nature  to  refuse  such  a  one  as  I  am  describ- 
ing, than  to  say  no  to  a  poor  petitionary  rogue  (your 
bastard  borrower),  who,  by  his  mumping  visnomy, 


THE    TWO  RACES  OF  MEN.  211 

tells  you,  that  he  expects  nothing  better ;  and  there- 
fore, whose  preconceived  notions  and  expectations 
you  do  in  reality  so  much  less  shock  in  the  refusal. 
When  I  think  of  this  man  ;  his  fiery  glow  of  heart ; 
5  his  swell  of  feeling ;  how  magnificent,  how  ideal  he 
was ;  how  great  at  the  midnight  hour ;  and  when  I 
compare  with  him  the  companions  wnth  whom  I 
have  associated  since,  I  grudge  the  saving  of  a  few 
idle  ducats,  and  think  that  I  am  fallen  into  the  so- 

10  ciety  of  lenders,  and  little  men. 

To  one  like  Elia,  whose  treasures  are  rather  cased 
in  leather  covers  than  closed  in  iron  coffers,  there  is 
a  class  of  alienators  more  formidable  than  that 
which  I  have  touched  upon ;  I  mean  your  borrowers 

15  of  hooks — those  mutilators  of  collections,  spoilers  of 
the  symmetr}'  of  shelves,  and  creators  of  odd  vol- 
umes. There  is  Comberbatch,  matchless  in  his  dep- 
redations ! 

That  foul  gap  in  the  bottom  shelf  facing  you,  like 

20a  great  eye-tooth  knocked  out — (you  are  now  with 
me  in  my  little  back  study  in  Bloomsbury,  reader!) 
— with  the  huge  Switzer-like  tomes  on  each  side 
(like  the  Guildhall  giants,  in  their  reformed  pos- 
ture, guardant  of  nothing)  once  held  the  tallest  of 

25  my  folios,  Opera  BonaventurcE,  choice  and  massy 
divinity,  to  which  its  two  supporters  ( school  divinity 
also,  but  of  a  lesser  caliber, — Bellarmine,  and  Holy 
Thomas)  showed  but  as  dwarfs,  itself  an  Ascapart! 
— that  Comberbatch  abstracted  upon  the  faith  of  a 

30  theory  he  holds,  which  is  more  easy,  I  confess,  for 
me  to  suffer  by  than  to  refute,  namely,  that  "  the 
title  to  property  in  a  book"  (my  Bona  venture,  for 
instance)  "  is  in  exact  ratio  to  the  claimant's  powers 
of    understanding    and    appreciating    the    same." 


2 1 2  EXPOSITION. 

Should  he  go  on  acting  upon  this  theory,  which  of 
our  shelves  is  safe? 

The  sHght  vacuum   in   the   left-hand  case — two 
shelves   from  the   ceiling — scarcely   distinguishable 
but  by  the  quick  eye  of  a  loser — was  whilom  the    5 
commodious     resting-place    of     Browne    on    Urn 
Burial.     C.  will  hardly  allege  that  he  knows  more 
about  that  treatise  than  I  do,  who  introduced  it  to 
him,  and  was  indeed  the  first  (of  the  moderns)  to 
discover  its  beauties — but  so  have  I  known  a  fool- 10 
ish  lover  to  praise  his  mistress  in  the  presence  of  a 
rival  more  qualified  to  carry  her  off  than  himself. 
— Just  below,  Dodsley's  dramas  want  their  fourth 
volume,    where   Vittoria   Corombona   is !     The   re- 
mainder nine  are  as  distasteful  as  Priam's  refuse  15 
sons,    where    the    fates    borrowed    Hector.     Here 
stood  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  in  sober  state. 
— There  loitered  the  Complete  Angler;  quiet  as  in 
life,  by  some  stream  side. — In  yonder  nook,  John 
Buncle,    a    widower-volume,    with    "  eyes    closed,"  20 
mourns  his  ravished  mate. 

One  justice  I  must  do  my  friend,  that  if  he  some- 
times, like  the  sea,  sweeps  away  a  treasure,  at  an- 
other time,  sea  like,  he  throws  up  as  rich  an  equiva- 
lent to  match  it.     I  have  a  small  under-collection  of  25 
this  nature  (my  friend's  gatherings  in  his  various 
calls),  picked  up,  he  has   forgotten  at  what  odd 
places,  and  deposited  with  as  little  memory  as  mine. 
I  take  in  these  orphans,  the  twice-deserted.     These 
proselytes  of  the  gate  are  welcome  as  the  true  He- 30 
brews.     There  they  stand  in  conjunction;  natives, 
and  naturalized.     The  latter  seem  as  little  disposed 
to  inquire  out  their  true  lineage  as  I  am. — I  charge    • 
no  warehouse-room  for  these  deodands,  nor  shall 


THE    TWO  RACES  OF  MEN.  213 

ever  put  myself  to  the  ungentlemanly  trouble  of  ad- 
vertising a  sale  of  them  to  pay  expenses. 

To  lose  a  volume  to  C.  carries  some  sense  and 
meaning  in  it.  You  are  sure  that  he  will  make  one 
5  hearty  meal  on  your  viands,  if  he  can  give  no  ac- 
count of  the  platter  after  it.  But  what  moved  thee, 
wayward,  spiteful  K.,  to  be  so  importunate  to  carry 
off  with  thee,  in  spite  of  tears  and  adjurations  to 
thee  to  forbear,  the  Letters  of  that  princely  woman, 

to  the  thrice  noble  Margaret  Newcastle  ? — knowing  at 
the  time,  and  knowing  that  I  knew  also,  thou  most 
assuredly  wouldst  never  turn  over  one  leaf  of  the 
illustrious  folio : — what  but  the  mere  spirit  of  con- 
tradiction, and  childish  love  of  getting  the  better 

15  of  thy  friend? — Then,  worst  cut  of  all!  to  transport 
it  with  thee  to  the  Gallican  land — 

'*  Unworthy  land  to  harbor  such  a  sweetness, 
A  virtue  in  which  all  ennobling  thoughts  dwelt, 
Pure  thoughts,  kind  thoughts,  high  thoughts,  her  sex's 
wonder  ! " 

20 — hadst  thou  not  thy  play-books,  and  books  of  jests 
and  fancies,  about  thee,  to  keep  thee  merry,  even  as 
thou  keepest  all  companies  with  thy  quips  and 
mirthful  tales? — Child  of  the  Green-room,  it  was 
unkindly,  unkindly  done  of  thee.     Thy  wife,   too, 

25  that  part-French,  better  part  Englishwoman ! — that 
she  could  fix  upon  no  other  treatise  to  bear  away,  in 
kindly  token  of  remembering  us,  than  the  works  of 
Fulke  Greville,  Lord  Brook — of  which  no  French- 
man, nor  woman  of  France,  Italy,  or  England,  was 

30 ever  by  nature  constituted  to  comprehend  a  title! 
Was  there  not  Zimmermann  on  Solitude? 

Reader,  if  haply  thou  art  blessed  with  a  moderate 


214  EXPOSITION. 

collection,  be  shy  of  showing  it ;  or  if  thy  heart  over- 
floweth  to  lend  them,  lend  thy  books ;  but  let  it  be  to 
such  a  one  as  S.  T.  C. — he  will  return  them  (gener- 
ally anticipating  the  time  appointed)  with  usury; 
enriched  with  annotations,  tripling  their  value.  I  5 
have  had  experience.  Many  are  these  precious 
MSS.  of  his — (in  matter  oftentimes,  and  almost  in 
quantity  not  unfrequently,  vying  with  the  originals) 
— in  no  very  clerkly  hand — legible  in  my  Daniel ;  in 
old  Burton ;  in  Sir  Thomas  Browne ;  and  those  ab-  lo 
struser  cogitations  of  the  Greville,  now,  alas !  wan- 
dering in  Pagan  lands. — I  counsel  thee,  shut  not 
thy  heart,  nor  thy  library,  against  S.  T.  C. 

— Essays  of  Elia. 

Notes. — We  come  now  to  a  large  class  of  expositions 
which    may    roughly    be    called    informal.      It    includes  15 
some  of  the    most  delightful    of    essays.     The    charm  of 
Lamb's  "  Two  Races  of  Men  "  is  manifold,  but  begins  with 
the  very  fact  of  the  expository  form,  the  grave,  insignificant 
classification  of  all  mankind  into   two  families.     It  uses 
similitudes  nrofusely,  but  the  sources  are  deliberately  too  20 
high  ;   the  Lhing  explained  is  always  less  than  the   thing 
brought  to  explain  it.     History  and  literature  are  taxed  for 
comparisons  of  sufficient  pretension.     The  diction  itself  is 
mock-heroic,  drawing  upon    the  deep    wells  and   secret 
places  of  language  ;  and  the  phrasing  is  full  of  compressed  25 
burlesque  and  whimsical  suggestion. 


THE  LOOK  OF  A    GENTLEMAN.  215 

4^.— ^be  Xook  Of  a  ©entleman, 

WILLIAM   HAZLITT. 

The  nobleman-look  ?  Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean  very 
well :  that  look  which  a  nobleman  should  have,  rather  than 
what  they  have  generally  now.  The  Duke  of  Buckingham 
(Sheffield)  was  a  genteel  man,  and  had  a  great  deal  the 
5  look  jj-ou  speak  of.  Wycherley  was  a  very  genteel  man, 
and  had  the  nobleman-look  as  much  as  the  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham.— POPB. 

He  instanced  it  too  in  Lord  Peterborough,  Lord  Boling- 
broke,  Lord  Hinchinbroke,  the  Duke  of  Bolton,  and  two  or 
10  three  more. — Spence's  Anecdotes  of  Pope. 

I  have  chosen  the  above  motto  to  a  very  delicate 
subject,  which  in  prudence  I  might  let  alone.  I, 
however,  like  the  title ;  and  will  try,  at  least,  to  make 
a  sketch  of  it. 

I?  What  it  is  that  constitutes  the  look  of  a  gentle- 
man is  more  easily  felt  than  described.  We  all 
know  it  when  we  see  it ;  but  we  do  not  know  how  to 
account  for  it^  or  to  explain  in  what  it  consists. 
Causa  latet,  res  ipsi  notassima.     Ease,  grace,  dig- 

2onity  have  been  given  as  the  exponents  and  expres- 
sive symbols  of  this  look ;  but  I  would  rather  say, 
that  an  habitual  self-possession  determines  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  gentleman.  He  should  have  the  com- 
plete command,  not  only  over  his  countenance,  but 

25  over  his  limbs  and  motions.  In  other  words,  he 
should  discover  in  his  air  and  manner  a  voluntary 
power  over  his  whole  body,  which,  with  every  in- 
flection of  it,  should  be  under  the  control  of  his  will. 
It  must  be  evident  that  he  looks  and  does  as  he  likes, 

30  without  any  restraint,  confusion,  or  awkwardness. 


2i6  EXPOSITION. 

He  is,  in  fact,  master  of  his  person,  as  the  professor 
of  any  art  or  science  is  of  a  particular  instrument; 
he  directs  it  to  what  use  he  pleases  and  intends. 
Wherever  this  power  and  facility  appear,  we  recog- 
nize the  look  and  deportment  of  the  gentleman —  5 
that  is,  of  a  person  who  by  his  habits  and  situation 
in  life,  and  in  his  ordinary  intercourse  with  society, 
has  had  little  else  to  do  than  to  study  those  move- 
ments, and  that  carriage  of  the  body,  which  were 
accompanied  with  most  satisfaction  to  himself,  and  ic 
were  calculated  to  excite  the  approbation  of  the  be- 
holder. Ease,  it  might  be  observed,  is  not  enough ; 
dignity  is  too  much.  There  must  be  a  certain  re- 
tenu,  a  conscious  decorum,  added  to  the  first — and  a 
certain  "  familiarity  of  regard,  quenching  the  aus- 15 
tere  countenance  of  control,"  in  the  other,  to  an- 
swer to  our  conception  of  this  character.  Perhaps 
propriety  is  as  near  a  word  as  any  to  denote  the 
manners  of  the  gentleman ;  elegance  is  necessary  to 
the  fine  gentleman ;  dignity  is  proper  to  noblemen ;  20 
and  majesty  to  kings  ! 

Wherever  this  constant  and  decent  subjection  of 
the  body  to  the  mind  is  visible  in  the  customary  ac- 
tions of  walking,  sitting,  riding,  standing,  speaking, 
etc.,  we  draw  the  same  conclusion  as  to  the  indi-  25 
vidual — whatever  may  be  the  impediments  or  un- 
avoidable defects  in  the  machine  of  which  he  has  the 
management.  A  man  may  have  a  mean  or  disa- 
greeable exterior,  may  halt  in  his  gait,  or  have  lost 
the  use  of  half  his  limbs ;  and  yet  he  may  show  this  3c 
habitual  attention  to  what  is  graceful  and  becoming 
in  the  use  he  makes  of  all  the  power  he  has  left — in 
the  "  nice  conduct  "  of  the  most  unpromising  and 
impracticable  figure.    A  hump-bacl^ed  or  (jeforwietJ 


THE  LOOK  OF  A    GENTLEMAN.  217 

man  does  not  necessarily  look  like  a  clown  or  a  me- 
chanic; on  the  contrary,  from  his  care  in  the  ad- 
justment of  his  appearance,  and  his  desire  to  remedy 
his  defects,  he  for  the  most  part  acquires  something 
5  of  the  look  of  a  gentleman.  The  common  nick- 
name of  My  Lord,  applied  to  such  persons,  has  al- 
lusion to  this — to  their  circumspect  deportment,  and 
tacit  resistance  to  vulgar  prejudice.  Lord  Ogleby, 
in  the  "  Clandestine  Marriage,"  is  as  crazy  a  piece 

10  of  elegance  and  refinement,  even  after  he  is  "  wound 
up  for  the  day,"  as  can  well  be  imagined ;  yet  in  the 
hands  of  a  genuine  actor,  his  tottering  step,  his 
twitches  of  the  gout,  his  unsuccessful  attempts  at 
youth  and  gayety,  take  nothing  from  the  nobleman. 

15  He  has  the  ideal  model  in  his  mind,  resents  his  de- 
viations from  it  with  proper  horror,  recovers  himself 
from  any  ungraceful  action  as  soon  as  possible ;  does 
all  he  can  with  his  limited  means,  and  fails  in  his 
just  pretensions,  not  from  inadvertance,  but  neces- 

2osity.  Sir  Joseph  Banks,  who  was  almost  bent 
double,  retained  to  the  last  the  look  of  a  privy- 
councilor.  There  was  all  the  firmness  and  dignity 
that  could  be  given  by  the  sense  of  his  own  impor- 
tance to   so  distorted   and   disabled   a  trunk.     Sir 

25  Charles  Bunbury,  as  he  saunters  down  St.  James's 
Street,  with  a  large  slouched  hat,  a  lack-luster  eye, 
and  aquiline  nose,  an  old  shabby  drab-colored  coat, 
buttoned  across  his  breast  without  a  cape — with  old 
top-boots,  and  his  hands  in  his  waistcoat  or  breeches 

30  pockets,  as  if  he  were  strolling  along  his  own  gar- 
den-walks, or  over  the  turf  at  Newmarket,  after 
having  made  his  bets  secure — presents  nothing  very 
dazzling,  or  graceful,  or  dignified  to  the  imagina- 
tion;  though   you   can   tell   infallibly   at   the  first 


2i8  EXPOSITION. 

glance,  or  even  a  bow-shot  off,  that  he  is  a  gentle- 
man of  the  first  water  (the  same  that  sixty  years  ago 
married  the  beautiful  Lady  Sarah  Lennox,  with 
whom  the  king  was  in  love).  What  is  the  clue  to 
this  mystery?  It  is  evident  that  his  person  costs  5 
him  no  more  trouble  than  an  old  glove.  His  limbs 
are,  as  it  were,  left  to  take  care  of  themselves ;  they 
move  of  their  own  accord ;  he  does  not  strut  or  stand 
on  tip-toe  to  show 

" how  tall  10 

His  person  is  above  them  all ; " — 

but  he  seems  to  find  his  own  level,  and  wherever  he 
is,  to  slide  into  his  place  naturally;  he  is  equally  at 
home  among  lords  or  gamblers ;  nothing  can  dis- 
compose his  fixed  serenity  of  look  and  purpose;  15 
there  is  no  mark  of  superciliousness  about  him,  nor 
does  it  appear  as  if  anything  could  meet  his  eye  to 
startle  or  throw  him  off  his  guard ;  he  neither  avoids 
nor  courts  notice ;  but  the  archaism  of  his  dress  may 
be  understood  to  denote  a  lingering  partiality  for  20 
the  costume  of  the  last  age,  and  something  like 
a  prescriptive  contempt  for  the  finery  of  this.  The 
old  one-eyed  Duke  of  Queensbury  is  another  ex- 
ample that  I  might  quote.  As  he  sat  in  his  bow- 
window  in  Piccadilly,  erect  and  emaciated,  he  25 
seemed  like  a  nobleman  framed  and  glazed,  or  a 
well-dressed  mummy  of  the  court  of  George  IL 

We  have  few  of  these  precious  specimens  of  the 
gentleman  or  nobleman-look  now  remaining;  other 
considerations  have  set  aside  the  exclusive  impor-  30 
tance  of  the  character,  and,  of  course,  the  jealous 
attention  to  the  outward  expression  of  it.  Where 
we  oftenest  meet  with  it  nowadays  is,  perhaps,  in 


THE   LOOK  OF  A    GENTLEMAN.  219 

the  butlers  in  old  families,  or  the  valets,  and  "  gen- 
tlemen's gentlemen  "  of  the  younger  branches.  The 
sleek  pursy  gravity  of  the  one  answers  to  the  stately 
air  of  some  of  their  quofidam  masters;  and  the  flip- 
5  pancy  and  finery  of  our  old-fashioned  beaux,  having 
been  discarded  by  the  heirs  to  the  title  and  estate, 
have  been  retained  by  their  lackeys.  The  late 
Admiral  Byron  (I  have  heard  Northcote  say)  had  a 
butler,  or  steward,  who,  from  constantly  observing 

20  his  master,  had  so  learned  to  mimic  him — the  look, 
the  manner,  the  voice,  the  bow  were  so  alike — he 
was  so  "  subdued  to  the  very  quality  of  his  lord  " 
— that  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  them  apart. 
Our  modern  footmen,  as  we  see  them  fluttering  and 

15  lounging  in  lobbies,  or  at  the  doors  of  ladies'  car- 
riages, bedizened  in  lace  and  powder,  with  ivory- 
headed  cane  and  embroidered  gloves,  give  one  the 
only  idea  of  the  fine  gentlemen  of  former  periods,  as 
they  are  still  occasionally  represented  on  the  stage; 

20  and  indeed  our  theatrical  heroes,  who  top  such 
parts,  might  be  supposed  to  have  copied,  as  a  last  re- 
source, from  the  heroes  of  the  shoulder-knot.  We 
also  sometimes  meet  with  straggling  personation  of 
this  character,  got  up  in  common  life  from  pure  ro- 

25  mantic  enthusiasm,  and  on  absolutely  ideal  princi- 
ples. I  recollect  a  well-grown  comely  haberdasher, 
who  made  a  practice  of  walking  every  day  from 
Bishopsgate  Street  to  Pall  Mall  and  Bond  Street 
with  the  undaunted  air  and   strut  of  a  general- 

30  officer ;  and  also  a  prim  undertaker,  who  regularly 
tendered  his  person,  whenever  the  weather  would 
permit,  from  the  neighborhood  of  Camberwell  into 
the  favorite  promenades  of  the  City  with  a  mincing 
gait  that  would  have  become  a  gentleman-usher  of 


220  EXPOSITION. 

the  black-rod.  What  a  strange  infatuation  to  live 
in  a  dream  of  being  taken  for  what  one  is  not — in 
deceiving  others,  and  at  the  same  time  ourselves ; 
for  no  doubt  these  persons  believed  that  they  thus 
appeared  to  the  world  in  their  true  characters,  and  5 
that  their  assumed  pretensions  did  no  more  than  jus- 
tice to  their  real  merits. 

"  Dress  makes  the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow  : 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  and  prunella." 

I  confess,  however,  that  I  admire  this  look  of  a  lo 
gentleman  more  when  it  rises  from  the  level  of  com- 
mon life,  and  bears  the  stamp  of  intellect,  that  when 
it  is  formed  out  of  the  mold  of  adventitious  circum- 
stances. I  think  more  highly  of  Wycherley  than  I 
do  ai  Lord  Hinchinbroke,  for  looking  like  a  lord.  15 
In  the  one  it  was  the  effect  of  native  genius,  grace, 
and  spirit ;  in  the  other,  comparatively  speaking,  of 
pride  or  custom. 

— Oti  the  Look  of  a  Gentleman,  in  "  Essays." 

Notes. — That  an  exposition  is  informal  in  manner  is  no 
proof  that  it  lacks  weight  in  substance  or  in  implication.  20 
Indeed,  the  light  essay  is  often  a  surprisingly  true  index  of 
the  writer's  nature.  Hazlitt's  classification  of  gentlemen 
by  their  look  of  "habitual  self-possession,"  of  "complete 
command,  not  only  over  their  countenance,  but  over  their 
limbs  and  motions,"  implies  that  Hazlitt's  notion  of  the  25 
gentleman  is  partly  feudal.  Sir  Charles  Bunbury  has  all 
the  graces  of  one  who  is  lord  of  his  limbs,  his  clothes,  his 
manners,  and  of  men  ;  but  there  is  nothing  to  show  that 
Sir  Charles  is  lord  of  his  own  envy  or  arrogance.  "Wycherly 
has  the  look  of  a  gentleman,  from  his  "  native  genius,  30 
grace,  and  spirit,"  and  a  gentleman  he  may  have  been, 
according  to  Hazlitt's  definition.  Hazlitt  of  course  may 
have  considered  a  gentleman  to  be  a  different  creature 
from  a  man,  a  vi'r,  an  eor/. 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  GENTLEMEN.      221 

47.— Bngltsb  anO  Bmcrlcan  ©entlemen.' 

THOMAS   WENTWORTH    HIGGINSON. 

A  report  is  going  the  rounds  of  the  newspapers 
— and  may,  nevertheless,  be  true — that  some  Cor- 
nell University  students  were  ruled  out  from  row- 
ing in  the  Henley  regatta  because  they  had  crossed 
5  the  ocean  in  a  cattle-steamer ;  and  had  therefore 
earned  money  by  the  work  of  their  hands.  The 
college  oarsmen,  it  was  stated,  "  must  be  gentle- 
men," and  no  gentleman  could  have  worked  with 
his  hands.     The  rumor  looks  a  little  improbable, 

10  because  in  "  Tom  Brown  at  Rugby,"  written  nearly 
half  a  century  ago,  a  college  crew  is  described  as  be- 
ing saved  by  the  rowing  of  a  plebeian  student,  who 
had,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  done  some  manual  la- 
bor.    If,  however,  the  tale  be  true,  it  points  to  a  dif- 

15  ference,  still  insurmountable,  between  the  English 
and  American  students.  Even  in  circles  of  in- 
herited wealth  in  this  country  it  is  not  at  all  uncom- 
mon for  a  young  man  who  is  to  enter  upon  manufac- 
turing or  mining  or  railroad  business  to  begin  him- 

20  self  at  the  foundation,  work  with  the  laborers,  dine 
from  a  tin  pail,  and  be  paid  wages  like  the  rest. 
Among  the  owners  of  mines  and  factories  the 
greater  number  have  begun  on  the  tin-pail  level. 
To  all  these  the  word  "  gentleman  "  means  some- 

25  thing  very  different  from  what  it  means  in  England. 
It  means  good  manners  and  good  education, 
whether  the  owner  dates  back  to  a  cattle-steamer  or 
otherwise.     This  might  be  called,  in  a  certain  way, 

1  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,    from  "  Book  an4 
Heart,"  copyright,  1897,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


2  22  EXPOSITION. 

the  Christian  meaning  of  the  word — inasmuch  as  the 
founder  of  this  rehgion  was  a  carpenter's  son,  and, 
as  the  Church  has  generally  held,  worked  at  his 
father's  trade  in  early  youth.  Yet  he  was  called  by 
the  poet  Dekker,  in  a  line  which  is  very  likely  to  5 
prove  immortal — 

"  The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed." 

There  are  two  great  defects  in  the  working  of  the 
English  theory  that  a  gentleman  must  never,  under 
any  circumstances,  have  worked  with  his  hands.  10 
The  first  is  that  it  handicaps  everyone  who  has  so 
worked,  and  makes  it  harder  for  him.,  even  in  the 
American  sense,  to  be  a  gentleman.  People  are 
very  apt  to  be  what  is  expected  of  them.  Assume 
that  a  whole  class  will  be  clowns,  and  they  are  more  15 
likely  to  be  so;  assume  that  they  are  to  be  gentle- 
men, you  remove  half  the  obstacle  to  their  success. 
Hence  much  of  the  flexibility  of  American  charac- 
ter, its  ready  adaptation.  Since  it  made  no  differ- 
ence to  anybody  else  that  Whittier  had  been  in  20 
youth  a  farmer's  boy  in  summer  and  a  shoemaker  in 
winter,  it  made  no  difference  to  him ;  and  nobody 
stopped  to  ask  whether  he  had  sustained,  in  child- 
hood, the  same  refining  influences  with  Longfellow 
and  Lowell.  In  Nev/  York,  in  Washington,  one  25 
often  encounters  eminent  men  who  have  worked 
with  their  hands.  In  England  these  men  would 
have  carried  for  life  the  stamp  of  that  experience — 
some  misplaced  /z,  some  Yorkshire  burr  would  have 
stamped  them  forever.  In  America  the  correspond-  30 
ing  drawbacks  have  been  easily  effaced  and  swept 
away.  No  doubt  climate  and  temperament  have 
something  to  do  with  this  difference,  but  the  recog- 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  GENTLEMEN.      223 

nized  social  theory  has  more.  It  grows  largely  out 
of  the  changed  definition  of  the  word  "  gentleman." 
In  America  this  altered  classification  has  let  down 
the  bars.  The  word  "  gentleman  "  denotes  a  class 
5  that  is  henceforward  accessible  to  merit. 

The  other  defect  of  the  English  standard  is  that 
it  perpetuates,  even  inside  those  who  rank  as  gen- 
tlemen, a  permanent  feudalism,  a  wholly  artificial 
standard  of  social  subordination.     This  lasts  even 

10  to  the  present  time.  In  the  autobiography  of  An- 
thony Trollope  there  is  an  especial  chapter  on  the 
question,  "  How  a  literary  man  should  treat  his  so- 
cial superiors  " — a  chapter  which  is,  to  an  Ameri- 
can literary  man,  first  ludicrous  and  then  pathetic. 

15  Walter  Besant  in  his  "  Fifty  Years  Ago "  enu- 
merated the  list  of  eminent  authors  and  scientists  of 
the  Victorian  period,  and  pointed  with  what  seemed 
like  pride  to  the  fact  that  they  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  court  of  Victoria.     Now  that  he  has  been 

20  knighted,  he  doubtless  acquiesces  with  resignation. 
But  the  crowning  illustration  of  the  curious  atti- 
tude given  by  belated  feudalism  to  the  author  is  to 
be  found  in  the  lately  published  letters  of  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott.     They  are  delightful  in  all  respects  but 

25  one — the  absolute  self-subordination,  the  personal 
prostration,  with  which  he  writes  to  every  titled 
nonentity  about  him.  Men  younger  than  himself, 
now  utterly  forgotten  by  the  world  at  large,  were 
treated  by  this  leading  Scotch  intellect  of  his  day  as 

30  if  they  conferred  honor  by  letting  him  write  to 
them;  and  the  very  grace  and  naturalness  with 
which  it  is  done  shows  how  ingrain  it  is.  To  the 
chief  of  his  clan,  especially,  Scott  poses  as  the  hum- 
ble minstrel  for  whom  it  is  honor  enough  to  sit  in 


224  EXPOSITION. 

the  doorway  of  his  liege  and  amuse  that  august  leis- 
ure. That  this  attitude  was  not  inevitable  we  know 
by  the  very  different  tone  of  Burns ;  but  the  facility 
with  which  Scott  fell  into  it  shows  the  strength  of 
the  feudal  tradition ;  while  the  attitude  of  Trollope  5 
and  Besant  shows  that  it  still  survives. 

But  Scott's  letters  are  of  especial  value  for  this : 
that  they  absolutely  defeat  the  theory  held  by  many 
Englishmen  and  some  Americans  as  to  the  close  re- 
semblance between  an  aristocracy  of  birth  and  one  10 
of  wealth.  No  one  can  read  these  letters  of  Scott's 
and  imagine  for  an  instant  an  American  man  of 
genius  as  writing  in  the  same  tone  to  any  merely 
rich  man.  He  might  write  more  beseechingly  when 
he  had  favors  to  ask,  he  might  use  more  direct  flat- 15 
tery;  but  the  feudal  flavor  would  not  be  there,  nor 
would  it  be  possible  to  put  it  on.  It  would  not, 
like  Scott's  tone,  be  spontaneous,  unaffected,  and  in 
that  point  of  view  almost  dignified.  Cringing  and 
mean  it  might  be,  but  not  ingrain  and  unconscious.  20 
It  would  be  the  exceptional  mean  act  of  a  con- 
sciously base  man ;  it  would  not  represent  the  very 
organization  and  structure  of  society.  It  was  be- 
cause Scott  was  personally  a  man  of  high  tone  that 
this  deferential  attitude  is  a  thing  alarming — and  25 
instructive.  If  he  had  done  it  for  a  particular  pur- 
pose it  would  have  represented  far  less.  It  only 
shows  that  the  feudal  survival  is  really  the  thing 
nearest  the  heart  of  those  who  dwell  under  its  in- 
fluence, and  that  the  satiric  pictures  of  Thackeray  30 
are  not  obsolete,  but  really  belong  to  to-day.  A 
nation  is  tested  not  by  watching  the  class  which 
looks  down,  but  by  the  class  which  looks  up.  In 
England  the  upper  classes  naturally  and  innocently 


THE   OLYMPIANS.  225 

look  down,  and  the  middle  and  lower  classes  look 
up.  In  the  United  States  the  so-called  upper  class 
may  or  may  not  look  down,  but  the  rest  do  not  look 
up,  and  this  makes  an  ineradicable  difference.  The 
5  less  favored  may  point  with  pride  or  gaze  with  cu- 
riosity, but  they  certainly  do  not  manifest  reverence 
for  the  mere  social  position.  Something-  akin  to 
that  feeling-  may  be  called  out  by  the  political  hero, 
the  favorite  author,  even  by  the  local  "  boss,"  but  by 
10  mere  wealth  never.     It  is  better  so. 

Notes. — Colonel  Higginson's  classification  of  gentle- 
men is  clearly  different  from  Hazlitt's  ;  indeed,  it  is 
directed  against  the  British  definition  implied  in  Hazlitt's 
essay.     But  Colonel  Higginson's  real  subject  is  the  bad 

15  effects  of  the  British  notion  upon  society.  These  he  classi- 
fies as  two :  the  bad  effect  by  which  the  laborer  is  kept 
from  rising  in  social  rank,  and  the  bad  effect  by  which 
feudal  sentiment  is  perpetuated  among  gentlemen  toward 
noblemen.     Thus  the  whole  exposition,  while  hardly  aspir- 

2oing  to  the  office  of  persuasion,  looks  toward  the  future. 
Another  detail  of  the  method  deserves  notice, — the  grace- 
ful opening,  by  transition  from  a  current  event  to  a  social 
principle. 

48.— tTbe  ©l^mpians.* 

KENNETH    GRAHAME. 

Looking  back  to  those  days  of  old,  ere  the  gate 
25  shut  to  behind  me,  I  can  see  now  that  to  children 
with  a  proper  equipment  of  parents  these  things 
would  have  worn  a  different  aspect.  But  to  those 
whose  nearest  were  aunts  and  uncles,  a  special  atti- 
tude of  mind  may  be  allowed.     They  treated  us,  in- 

>  Reprinted  from  "The  Gplden  Age,"  by  permission  of  Mr.  John 
Lane. 


226  EXPOSITION. 

deed,  with  kindness  enough  as  to  the  needs  of  the 
flesh,  but  after  that  with  indifference  (an  indiffer- 
ence, as  I  recognize,  the  result  of  a  certain  stu- 
pidity), and  therewith  the  commonplace  conviction 
that  your  child  is  merely  animal.  At  a  very  early  5 
age  I  remember  realizing  in  a  quite  impersonal  and 
kindly  way  the  existence  of  that  stupidity,  and  its 
tremendous  influence  in  the  world;  while  there 
grew  up  in  me,  as  in  the  parallel  case  of  Caliban 
upon  Setebos.  a  vague  sense  of  a  ruling  power,  will-  lo 
ful  and  freakish,  and  prone  to  the  practice  of  vaga- 
ries— "  just  choosing  so  ":  as,  for  instance,  the  giv- 
ing of  authority  over  us  to  these  hopeless  and  inca- 
pable creatures,  when  it  might  far  more  reasonably 
have  been  given  to  ourselves  over  them.  These  el-  15 
ders,  our  betters  by  a  trick  of  chance,  commanded 
no  respect,  but  only  a  certain  blend  of  envy — of 
their  good  luck — and  pity — for  their  inability 
to  make  use  of  it.  Indeed,  it  was  one  of  the 
most  hopeless  features  in  their  character  (when  20 
we  troubled  ourselves  to  waste  a  thought  on 
them:  which  wasn't  often)  that,  having  absolute  li- 
cense to  indulge  in  the  pleasures  of  life,  they  could 
get  no  good  of  it.  They  might  dabble  in  the  pond 
all  day,  hunt  the  chickens,  climb  trees  in  the  most  25 
uncompromising  Sunday  clothes ;  they  were  free  to 
issue  forth  and  buy  gunpowder  in  the  full  eye  of  the 
sun — free  to  fire  cannons  and  explode  mines  on  the 
lawn:  yet  they  never  did  any  one  of  these  things. 
No  irresistible  Energy  haled  them  to  church  o'  Sun-  30 
days ;  yet  they  went  there  regularly  of  their  own  ac- 
cord, though  they  betrayed  no  greater  delight  in 
the  experience  than  ourselves. 

On  the  whole,  the  existence  of  these  Olympians 


THE   OLYMPIANS.  227 

seemed  to  be  entirely  void  of  interests,  even  as  their 
movements  were  confined  and  slow,  and  their  habits 
stereotyped  and  senseless.  To  anything  but  ap- 
pearances they  were  blind.  For  them  the  orchard 
5  (a  place  elf-haunted,  wonderful!)  simply  produced 
so  many  apples  and  cherries :  or  it  didn't,  when  the 
failures  of  Nature  were  not  infrequently  ascribed  to 
us.  They  never  set  foot  within  fir-wood  or  hazel- 
copse,  nor  dreamt  of  the  marvels  hid  therein.     The 

10  mysterious  sources — sources  as  of  old  Nile — that 
fed  the  duck-pond  had  no  magic  for  them.  They 
were  unaware  of  Indians,  nor  recked  they  anything 
of  bisons  or  of  pirates  (with  pistols!),  though  the 
whole  place  swarmed  with   such   portents.     They 

15  cared  not  about  exploring  for  robbers'  caves,  nor 
digging  for  hidden  treasure.  Perhaps,  indeed,  it 
was  one  of  their  best  qualities  that  they  spent  the 
greater  part  of  their  time  stuffily  indoors. 

To  be  sure,  there  was  an  exception  in  the  curate, 

20  who  would  receive  unblenchingly  the  information 
that  the  meadow  beyond  the  orchard  was  a  prairie 
studded  with  herds  of  buffalo,  which  it  was  our  de- 
light, moccasined  and  tomahawked,  to  ride  down 
with  those  whoops  that  announce  the  scenting  of 

25  blood.  He  neither  laughed  nor  sneered,  as  the 
Olympians  would  have  done;  but,  possessed  of  a 
serious  idiosyncrasy,  he  would  contribute  such  lots 
of  valuable  suggestion  as  to  the  pursuit  of  this  par- 
ticular sort  of  big  game  that,  as  it  seemed  to  us,  his 

30  mature  age  and  eminent  position  could  scarce  have 
been  attained  without  a  practical  knowledge  of  the 
creature  in  its  native  lair.  Then,  too,  he  was  always 
ready  to  constitute  himself  a  hostile  army  or  a  band 
of  marauding  Indians  on  the  shortest  possible  no- 


2  28  EXPOSITION. 

tice:  in  brief,  a  distinctly  able  man,  with  talents,  so 
far  as  we  could  judge,  immensely  above  the  ma- 
jority. I  trust  he  is  a  bishop  by  this  time, — he  had 
all  the  necessary  qualifications,  as  we  knew. 

These  strange  folk  had  visitors  sometimes, — stiff  s 
and   colorless   Olympians   like   themselves,   equally 
without    vital    interests    and    intelligent    pursuits : 
emerging  out  of  the  clouds,  and  passing  away  again 
to  drag  on  an  aimless  existence  somewhere  out  of 
our  ken.     Then  brute  force  was  pitilessly  applied.  lo 
We  were  captured,  washed,  and  forced  into  clean 
collars :  silently  submitting,  as  was  our  wont,  with 
more  contempt  than  anger.     Anon,  with  unctuous 
hair  and  faces  stiffened  in  a  conventional  grin,  we 
sat  and  listened  to  the  usual  platitudes.     How  could  15 
reasonable   people    spend   their   precious    time   so? 
That  was  ever  our  wonder  as  we  bounded  forth  at 
last — to  the  old  clay-pit  to  make  pots,  or  to  hunt 
bears  among  the  hazels. 

It  was  incessant  matter  for  amazement  how  these  20 
Olympians    would    talk    over    our    heads — during 
meals,  for  instance — of  this  or  the  other  social  or 
political  inanity,  under  the  delusion  that  these  pale 
phantasms  of  reality  were  among  the  importances  of 
life.     We  illurninati,  eating  silently,  our  heads  full  25 
of  plans  and  conspiracies,  could  have  told  them  what 
real  life  was.     We  had  just  left  it  outside,  and  were 
all  on  fire  to  get  back  to  it.     Of  course  we  didn't 
waste  the  revelation  on  them;  the  futility  of  im- 
parting   our    ideas    had    long    been    demonstrated.  30 
One  in   thought   and   purpose,   linked   by   the   ne- 
cessity of  combating  one  hostile  fate,  a  power  an- 
tagonistic ever, — a  pov/er  we  lived  to  evade, — we 
had  no  confidants   save  ourselves.    This   strange 


THE   OLYMPIANS.  229 

anaemic  order  of  beings  was  further  removed  from 
us,  in  fact,  than  the  kindly  beasts  who  shared  our 
natural  existence  in  the  sun.  The  estrangement 
was  fortified  by  an  abiding  sense  of  injustice,  arising 
5  from  the  refusal  of  the  Olympians  ever  to  defend, 
retract,  or  admit  themselves  in  the  wrong,  or  to  ac- 
cept similar  concessions  on  our  part.  For  instance, 
when  I  flung  the  cat  out  of  an  upper  window 
(though  I  did  it  from  no  ill-feeling,  and  it  didn't 

10 hurt  the  cat),  I  was  ready,  after  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion, to  own  I  was  wrong,  as  a  gentleman  should. 
But  was  the  matter  allowed  to  end  there?  I  trow 
not.  Again,  when  Harold  was  locked  up  in  his 
room  all  day,  for  assault  and  battery  upon  a  neigh- 

15  bor's  pig, — an  action  he  would  have  scorned,  be- 
ing indeed  on  the  friendliest  terms  with  the  porker 
in  question, — ^^there  was  no  handsome  expression  of 
regret  on  the  discovery  of  the  real  culprit.  What 
Harold  had  felt  was  not  so  much  the  imprisonment, 

20 — indeed  he  had  very  soon  escaped  by  the  window, 
with  assistance  from  his  allies,  and  had  only  gone 
back  in  time  for  his  release, — as  the  Olympian  habit. 
A  word  would  have  set  all  right ;  but  of  course  that 
word  was  never  spoken. 

25  Well !  The  Olympians  are  all  past  and  gone. 
Somehow  the  sun  does  not  seem  to  shine  so  brightly 
as  it  used ;  the  trackless  meadows  of  old  time  have 
shrunk  and  dwindled  away  to  a  few  poor  acres.  A 
saddening  doubt,  a  dull  suspicion,  creeps  over  me. 

30  £;  in  Arcadia  ego, — I  certainly  did  once  inhabit  Ar- 
cady.     Can  it  be  I  too  have  become  an  Olympian? 

Notes. — The  selection  just  given  illustrates  how,  in 
imaginative  exposition,  the  point  of  view  is  important. 
Quite  as  Mr.  Grahame  enters  into  the  child's  poipt  of 


230  EXPOSITION. 

view,  so  the  good  historian  lays  aside  his  own  beliefs  and 
tries  to  realize  those  which  actuated  men  in  other  days, 
other  circumstances  ;  even  so  also  the  successful  novelist 
merges  himself  in  his  characters  until  each  becomes  a 
living  personality. 


49,— IRatn.' 

ALICE    MEYNELL. 

Not  excepting  the  falling  stars — for  they  are  far 
less  sudden — there  is  nothing  in  nature  that  so  out- 
strips our  unready  eyes  as  the  familiar  rain.  The 
rods  that  thinly  stripe  our  landscape,  long  shafts 
from  the  clouds,  if  we  had  but  agility  to  make  the  lo 
arrowy  downward  journey  with  them  by  the  glanc- 
ing of  our  eyes,  would  be  infinitely  separate,  units, 
an  innumerable  flight  of  single  things,  and  the  sim- 
ple movement  of  intricate  points. 

The  long  stroke  of  the  raindrop,  which  is  the  drop  15 
and  its  path  at  once,  being  our  impression  of  a 
shower,  shows  us  how  certainly  our  impression  is 
the  effect  of  the  lagging,  and  not  of  the  haste,  of  our 
senses.     What  we  are  apt  to  call  our  quick  impres- 
sion is  rather  our  sensibly  tardy,  unprepared,  sur-  20 
prised,  outrun,  lightly  bewildered  sense  of  things 
that  flash  and  fall,  wink,  and  are  overpast  and  re- 
newed, while  the  gentle  eyes  of  man  hesitate  and 
mingle  the  beginning  with   the   close.     These   in- 
expert eyes,  delicately  baffled,  detain  for  an  instant  25 
the  image  that  puzzles  them,  and  so  dally  with  the 
bright  progress  of  a  meteor,  and  part  slowly  from 
the  slender  course  of  the  already  fallen  raindrop, 

'Reprinted  from   "The  Spirit    of  Place,"  by  permission  of  Mr 
John  Lane. 


RAIN.  231 

whose  moments  are  not  theirs.  There  seems  to  be 
such  a  difference  of  instants  as  invests  all  swift 
movement  with  mystery  in  man's  eyes,  and  causes 
the  past,  a  moment  old,  to  be  written,  vanishing, 

5  upon  the  skies. 

The  visible  world  is  etched  and  engraved  with  the 
signs  and  records  of  our  halting  apprehension ;  and 
the  pause  between  the  distant  woodman's  stroke 
with  the  ax  and  its  sound  upon  our  ears  is  repeated 

10  in  the  impressions  of  our  clinging  sight.  The 
round  wheel  dazzles  it,  and  the  stroke  of  the  bird's 
wing  shakes  it  off  like  a  captivity  evaded.  Every- 
where the  natural  haste  is  impatient  of  these  timid 
senses ;  and  their  perception,  outrun  by  the  shower, 

15  shaken  by  the  light,  denied  by  the  shadow,  eluded 
by  the  distance,  makes  the  lingering  picture  that  is 
all  our  art.  One  of  the  most  constant  causes  of  all 
the  mystery  and  beauty  of  that  art  is  surely  not  that 
we  see  by  flashes,  but  that  nature  flashes  on  our 

20  meditative  eyes.  There  is  no  need  for  the  impres- 
sionist to  make  haste,  nor  would  haste  avail  him, 
for  mobile  nature  doubles  upon  him,  and  plays  with 
his  delays  the  exquisite  game  of  visibility. 

Momently  visible  in  a  shower,  invisible  within  the 

25  earth,  the  ministration  of  water  is  so  manifest  in  the 
coming  rain-cloud  that  the  husbandman  is  allowed 
to  see  the  rain  of  his  own  land,  yet  unclaimed  in  the 
arms  of  the  rainy  wind.  It  is  an  eager  lien  that  he 
binds  the  shower  withal,  and  the  grasp  of  his  anx- 

30  iety  is  on  the  coming  cloud.  His  sense  of  property 
takes  aim  and  reckons  distance  and  speed,  and  even 
as  he  shoots  a  little  ahead  of  the  equally  uncertain 
ground-game,  he  knows  approximately  how  to  hit 
the  cloud  of  his  possession.     So  much  is  the  rain 


232  EXPOSITION. 

bound  to  the  earth  that,  unable  to  compel  it,  man 
has  yet  found  a  way,  by  lying  in  wait,  to  put  his 
price  upon  it.  The  exhaustible  cloud  "  outweeps  its 
rain,"  and  only  the  inexhaustible  sun  seems  to  re- 
peat and  to  enforce  his  cumulative  fires  upon  every  5 
span  of  ground,  innumerable.  The  rain  is  wasted 
upon  the  sea,  but  only  by  a  fantasy  can  the  sun's 
waste  be  made  a  reproach  to  the  ocean,  the  desert, 
or  the  sealed-up  street.  Rossetti's  "  vain  virtues  " 
are  the  virtues  of  the  rain,  falling  unfruitfully.         lo 

Baby  of  the  cloud,  rain  is  carried  long  enough 
within  that  troubled  breast  to  make  all  the  multi- 
tude of  days  unlike  each  other.  Rain,  as  the  end  of 
the  cloud,  divides  light  and  withholds  it ;  in  its  flight 
warning  away  the  sun,  and  in  its  final  fall  dismiss- 15 
ing  shadow.  It  is  a  threat  and  a  reconciliation ;  it 
removes  mountains  compared  with  which  the  Alps 
are  hillocks,  and  makes  a  childlike  peace  between 
opposed  heights  and  battlements  of  heaven. 

Notes. — This  short  essay  is  the  type  of  a  certain  modern  20 
species  of  informal  exposition  marked  by  close  observation 
of  nature,  and  by  imaginative  power.  Full  of  descrip- 
tion, it  transcends  this  with  acute  generalizations,  some- 
times scientific,  sometimes  poetic,  sometimes  psychological 
or  even  metaphysical.  In  its  most  abstract  form  it  has  25 
representatives  among  the  essays  of  Ruskin  and  Emerson  ; 
in  its  most  descriptive  form  it  is  found  in  the  works  of 
Thoreau,  Richard  Jefferies,  John  Burroughs,  and  Mrs. 
Meynell. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
ARGUMENTATION. 

50.— SPECIMEN   BRIEF.' 

Drawn  from  "  The  Child  and  the  State,"  an 

Argument 

BY    DAVID   DUDLEY    FIELD. 
INTRODUCTION. 

1.  The  Children's  Aid  Society  makes  the  state- 
ment that  $20  will  give  the  homeless  boy  a  home. 

2.  There  are  in  New  York  City  12,000  homeless 
children    under    twelve    years    of    age.     Of    these 

5  7000  do  not  know  in  the  morning  where  they  can 
sleep  at  night. 

'  A  brief  differs  from  a  topical  outline  in  one  important 
respect.  It  gives  in  the  form  of  propositions,  with  their 
proofs,  every  thought  that  is  essential  to  the  argument. 

10  Even  the  following  brief  by  Abraham  Lincoln,  though 
perhaps  the  shortest  on  record,  gives  more  than  mere 
topics.  The  case  was  to  recover  for  the  widow  of  a  Revo- 
lutionary veteran  the  sum  of  $200  which  a  rascally  agent 
had  retained  out  of  $400  of  pension  money.     "No  con- 

15  tract. — Not  professional  services. — Unreasonable  charge. — 
Money  retained  by  Deft  not  given  to  Pl'ff. — Revolutionary 
War. — Describe  Valley  Forge  privations. — Pl'ff's  husband. 
— Soldier  leaving  home  for  army. — Skin  Deft. — Close." 

333 


234  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

3.  Money  enough  is  daily  spent  in  New  York  in 
idle  luxury  to  give  each  homeless  child  a  home. 

4.  That  this  sad  condition  continues  is  due  not  to 
lack  of  charity,  but  to  popular  ignorance.  Let  us 
examine  the  situation.  5 

5.  The  tenement  houses  are  incredibly  over- 
crowded, a  family  of  ten  living  in  one  room.  The 
overcrowding  is  against  the  law,  but  we  are  not 
now  to  discuss  that  question  of  state  duty.  The 
poverty  and  crowding  result  in  sending  intelligent  10 
children  as  young  as  five  years  into  the  streets  to 
pick  refuse. 

6.  Has  the  state  any  duty  to  these  little  children? 
All  will  agree  that  it  has  some  duty,  if  only  to  pro- 
tect them  from  personal  violence.  15 

BRIEF   PROPER. 

The  state  ought  to  rescue  the  child  and  give  him 
a  home,  because 

A.  It  will  be  economical  to  rescue  him,  because 

I.  The  boy  may  become  a  pauper,  and 

II.  Almshouses   are   an   enormous   expense,  20 

since  New  York  City  pays  a  large  share 
of  $300,000  for  them, 

III.  Or  he  may  become  a  criminal,  and 

IV.  Police  and  prisons  are  an  enormous  ex- 
pense, the  police  of  New  York  City  cost-  25 
ing  yearly  $3,700,000. 

B.  It  will  be  self-protective  to  rescue  him,  because 

I.  He  may  be  a  voter  in  ten  or  twenty  years, 

II.  And  may  use  his  vote  to  the  detriment  of 

the  state.  30 

C.  There  are  precedents  for  rescuing  him,  because 


THE   CHILD  AND    THE   STATE.  235 

I.  The  compulsory  education  acts  are  pre- 

cedents, 

II.  The  corporations   to  prevent   cruelty   to 

children  are  precedents, 
5  III.  The  unincorporated  societies  organized 

for  children's  relief  are  precedents. 
The   Penal    Code   furnishes    precedents   by 
implication  in  those  sections  which  make 
it  a  crime 
10  IV.  To  desert  a  child  (Sec.  287), 

V.  To  fail  to  furnish  food,  clothing,  shelter, 

or  medical  attendance  (Sec.  288), 

VI.  To   endanger   a   child's   life   or   morals 
(Sec.  289),  or 

15  VII.     To  allow  children  to  pick  rags,  etc. 

(Sec.  291). 
The  Code  of  Criminal  Procedure  furnishes 
precedents  by  implication  in  those  sec- 
tions which  declare 
20  VIII.  That  a  truant  is  a  vagrant  (Sec.  887, 

888),  and 
IX.  That  child  beggars  must  be  committed 
to  the  poor-house  (Sec.  893). 
D.  The  present  provisions  of  the  law  are  not  ade- 
35  quate,  because 

I.  Very     young     children     are     classed     as 
criminals,  for 

(a)   the  word  "  arrest  "  is  made  ap- 
plicable to  them, 
30  II.  And  this  classification  places  a  perma- 

nent stigma  on  them. 

III.  The  children  are  sometimes  made  to  as- 
sociate with  criminals,  for 

(c)    they   may  be  brought  before  a 
criminal  magistrate. 


236  ARGUMENTA  TION. 


CONCLUSION. 

I.  The  state  should,  if  possible,  require  the  parent 

of  an  abused  or  abandoned  child  to  support  the 
child. 

II.  The  state  should  place  in  a  home  every  abused 

or  abandoned  child  not  charged  with  crime.       5 

III.  The  state  should,  for  this  purpose,  make  use  of 
homes  established  by  private  institutions  incor- 
porated for  charitable  purposes,  because 

(c)  it  can  thus  regulate  the  institutions,  and 
(&)   it  will  find  these  agencies  sufficient,  at  10 
least  for  the  present. 
"  If  these  views  are  sound,  they  lead  logically  to  the 
following  conclusions: 

IV.  That   there    should   be   a   public   guardian   of 
homeless  children  under  twelve  years  of  age,  15 
whose  duty  it  should  be  to  find  out  the  con- 
dition and  treatment  of  those  brought  before 
him,  and  when  he  sees  that  they  require  it,  to 
place  them  in  some  institution  incorporated  for 
the  care  of  such  children,  to  be  kept  there  or  20 
sent  by  them  to  homes  here  or  in  other  states. 
In  the  category  of  homeless  children  may  be  in- 
cluded not  only  orphans  without  homes,  but  all 
children  under  twelve  years  of  age  who  are 
abandoned  by  their  parents  or  so  neglected  or  25 
abused   as   to   require   that   they   be   taken   in 
charge. 

V.  That  every  police  officer  should  be  required 

and  every  citizen  should  be  permitted  to  bring 
a  homeless  child  before  this  guardian.  3c 

VI.  That  a  child  under  seven  years  of  age  should 


THE    CHILD  AND    THE   STATE.  237 

•never  under  any  circumstances  be  treated  as  a 
criminal,  and  a  child  between  seven  and  twelve 
should  not  be  so  treated  until  he  has  been  ex- 
amined by  the  guardian  and  by  him  sent  to  the 
criminal  magistrate.  No  child  under  twelve 
should  ever  be  left  in  the  society  of  criminals 
under  any  circumstances  whatever." 


5l.-Cbe  CbilD  anJ)  tbe  State' 

DAVID  DUDLEY  FIELD. 

"  The  Homeless  Boy  "  is  the  title  of  a  wood-cut 
circulated  by  the  Children's  Aid  Society.     It  is  a 

10  sad  picture.  The  little  waif  sits  on  a  stone  step, 
with  his  head  bent  over  and  resting  on  his  hands, 
stretched  across  bare  knees,  his  iiowing  hair  cover- 
ing his  face,  and  his  tattered  clothes  and  bare  feet 
betokening  utter  wretchedness.     Turning  the  leaf, 

15  we  are  informed  that  twenty  dollars  will  enable  the 
society  to  give  the  boy  a  home. 

Can  this  picture  be  real  and  the  statement  true? 
The  picture  is  too  real,  and  that  the  statement  is 
made  in  good  faith  and  for  reasons  sufficient,  we 

20  have  the  guaranty  of  the  society's  good  name  and 
the  known  fidelity  of  its  excellent  secretary,  Mr. 
Brace. 

How  many  of  such  homeless  children  are  there  in 
the  city  of  New  York  ?     We  are  told  that  there  are 

25  at  least  twelve  thousand  under  twelve  years  of  age ; 
seven  thousand  of  them  having  no  shelter,  not 
knowing  at  morning  where  they  can  sleep  at  night, 

*  Reprinted  from  The  Works  of  David  Dudley  Field,  by  permission 
of  Messrs  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 


238  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

and  the  rest  having  only  shelters  revolting  to  be- 
hold. Less  than  $250,000  then  would  give  them  all 
decent  and  comfortable  homes.  Every  night  that 
these  twelve  thousand  children  are  wandering  in 
the  streets  or  lurking  about  rum-shops  and  dance-  5 
houses,  or  huddled  in  dens  that  are  as  foul  in  air  as 
they  are  foul  in  occupants,  that  sum  many  times 
over  is  spent  in  superfluous  luxury.  Rich  parlors 
and  wide  halls  are  filled  nightly  with  pleasure  seek- 
ers, where  the  air  is  sweetened  with  the  perfume  of  -lo 
flowers,  music  wafted  with  the  perfume,  and  the 
light  is  like  "  a  new  morn  risen  on  mid  noon." 
The  voice  of  mirth  in  the  ball-room  drowns  the  wail 
of  the  children  beyond,  and  when  the  night  pales 
into  morning,  the  dancers  go  home  rejoicing  and  the  15 
children  go  about  the  streets.  Surely  there  must 
be  something  wrong  with  our  civilization,  our  Chris- 
tian civilization,  so  long  as  these  strange  contrasts 
are  permitted  to  last. 

It  is  not  for  the  lack  of  sympathy  or  Christian  20 
charity.     New  York  is  charitable  and  generous  be- 
yond most  cities,  and  I  think  I  might  have  said  be- 
yond any  city  of  Christendom,  which  is  as  much 
as  to  say  beyond  any  city  of  the  earth.     Private 
charity  is  great  and  association  for  public  charity  is  25 
greater.     On  every  hand  are  asylums,  retreats,  dis- 
pensaries ;  more  than  a  hundred  institutions  organ- 
ized for  the  relief  of  poverty  and  suffering;  asso- 
ciations for  mutual  help  established  in  all  trades  and 
nearly    all    professions;    and    over    four    hundred 30 
churches  have  their  societies  and  committees  in  aid 
of  needy  members.     How,  then,  is  it  that  we  behold 
this  dreadful  apparition  of  helpless  and  innocent 
suffering,  these  homeless  children,  who,  by  no  fault 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  STATE.  239 

of  their  own,  are  in  want  of  food,  clothing  and  shel- 
ter, and  are  lurking  in  corners  or  scattered  in  the 
streets.  It  is  because  there  is  not  a  wider  knowl- 
edge of  the  extent  of  the  evil  and  a  closer  study  of 
5  the  means  to  counteract  it. 

Let  us  enter  into  some  details. 
In  one  of  the  tenement  houses  of  the  city,  and 
their  number  is  legion,  there  is  a  room,  nineteen  feet 
long,  fifteen  feet  broad  and  eleven  high,  where  live 

10  a  man  and  his  wife  and  eight  children.  They  sleep, 
dress,  wash,  cook  and  eat  in  this  one  room.  These 
ten  persons  have  altogether  thirty-one  hundred  and 
thirty-five  cubic  feet  of  air,  while  the  law  requires  at 
least  six  thousand  feet — nearly  twice  as  much  as 

15  they  get.  From  tenement  houses  like  this  there 
flows  out  daily  a  stream  of  children,  ragged  and 
dirty,  to  pick  up  rags,  cigar  stumps,  and  other  refuse 
of  the  streets,  or  to  pilfer  or  beg,  as  best  they  can. 
This  is  not  the  place  to  describe  the  horrors  of  the 

20  tenement  house,  nor  to  discuss  the  duty  or  failure 
of  duty  on  the  part  of  the  state  in  respect  of  its  con- 
struction and  occupation.  I  ask  attention  only  to 
the  condition  of  the  children,  and  for  illustration 
take  the  case  of  a  boy,  five  years  old,  who  is  found, 

25  in  a  chill  November  day,  barefooted,  scantily 
clothed,  searching  among  the  rag  heaps  in  the  street. 
He  is  a  well-formed  child,  his  face  is  fair,  and  as  he 
turns  his  bright  eyes  upon  you  when  you  ask  him 
where  he  lives,  yoM  see  that  he  has  quick  intelli- 

sogence.  Altogether  he  is  such  a  child  as  a  father 
should  look  upon  with  pride  and  a  true  mother 
v>rould  press  to  her  bosom.  Yet  the  parents  are 
miserably  poor,  the  father  half  the  time  out  of  work, 
and  the  mother  wan  with  the  care  of  her  family. 


240  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

This  is  not  all.  Father  and  mother  both  drink  to 
excess,  and  each  is  intoxicated  as  often  at  least  as 
Saturday  night  comes  round. 

Has  the  state  any  duties  toward  this  little  boy, 
and  if  so  what  are  they?  5 

All  will  agree  that  it  has  some  duty,  at  least  that 
of  protection  from  personal  violence.  May  it  go 
further,  and  rescue  the  child  from  its  loathsome  oc- 
cupation, its  contaminating  surroundings  and  its 
faithless  parents  ?  I  think  that  it  may,  and  having  10 
the  right,  that  it  is  charged  with  the  duty  of  rescu- 
ing the  child.  This  is  a  large  subject,  larger  indeed 
than  can  be  fully  treated  in  this  paper,  but  some  of 
the  reasons  for  my  opinion  shall  be  stated.  At  the 
outset,  let  me  say  that  I  am  not  a  believer  in  the  15 
paternal  theory  of  government.  The  great  ends  for 
which  men  are  associated  in  political  communities 
are  mutual  protection,  and  the  construction  of  those 
public  works,  of  which  roads  and  bridges  are  ex- 
amples, for  which  individuals  are  not  competent.  20 
The  state  should  interfere  as  little  as  possible  with 
the  economy  of  the  family  and  the  liberty  of  the  in- 
dividual to  pursue  his  own  happiness  in  his  own 
way.  And  as  a  general  rule  parents  are  the  best 
guardians  of  their  children.  The  family  is  the  25 
primaeval  institution  of  the  race.  The  love  of  the 
parent  is  the  strongest  of  motives  for  the  care  of  the 
child.  But  when  parental  love  fails,  and  the  off- 
spring is  either  abandoned  or  educated  in  vice,  the 
state  may  rightfully  intervene.  Its  right  is  derived  30 
from  its  duty  to  protect  itself  and  to  protect  all  its 
people. 

I  am  not  deducing  the  right  of  interference  from 
an  impulse  of  the  heart,  though  that  be  the  founda- 


THE   CHILD  AND    THE   STATE.  241 

tion  on  which  our  hospitals  and  almshouses  are 
built,  but  I  place  it  upon  the  inherent  and  all-per- 
vading right  of  protection  and  self-defense. 
Charity  is  an  individual  privilege ;  the  impulse  is  an 
5  individual  gift  from  Heaven.  The  state  is  not 
founded  for  charity,  but  for  protection.  The  dic- 
tate of  humanity  is  without  doubt  to  take  a  child 
from  an  unfaithful  parent  and  give  it  the  training: 
most    likely    to    lead    to    an    honest    and    indus- 

10  trious  life.  This  is  to  transfer  the  child  from 
an  unclean  home  to  one  that  is  clean,  from 
indecency  to  decency,  from  foul  air  to  pure, 
from  unhealthy  food  to  that  which  is  healthy, 
from   evil   ways  to   good.     Who   can   doubt   that 

15  the  greatest  good  which  can  be  done  to  a  child 
neglected  by  its  parent  or  taught  beggary  or  crime, 
is  to  take  it  from  the  wicked  parent,  and  give  it  into 
the  care  of  one  who  will  teach  it,  not  only  the  rudi- 
ments of  learning,  but  honest  labor.     In  what  other 

20  way  can  we  better  follow  the  example  of  the  Di- 
vine Master  than  by  caring  for  these  little  ones,  who 
are  unable  to  take  care  of  themselves  ? 

Protection,  however,  is  the  foundation  of  the  right 
I  am  asserting.     We  must  of  course  have  a  care 

25  that  interference  for  protection  be  not  carried  be- 
yond its  rightful  limits.  If  any  general  rule  could 
be  laid  down  for  marking  these  limits  it  would  per- 
haps be  this,  that  the  state  should  not  invade  one 
man's  rights  in  order  to  protect  another's.     What 

30  the  individual  can  do  for  himself  the  state  should  not 
undertake.  But  in  the  case  supposed,  the  faithless 
parent  has  forfeited  his  right  to  his  child,  and  the 
only  point  to  be  considered  is  the  relation  of  the 
child  to  the  state.     This  relation  involves  consid- 


242  ARGUMBNTA  TION. 

erations  of  economy  and  of  safety,  each  of  which 
may  be  considered  by  itself. 

The  question  of  economy  has  political  and  social 
aspects.  The  prevention  of  crime  and  the  punish- 
ment of  the  criminal  impose  upon  the  state  some  of  5 
its  heaviest  burdens.  The  cost  of  the  police,  of  the 
courts  and  the  prisons,  makes  one  of  the  longest 
items  in  the  roll  of  public  expenditure.  In  the  year 
ending  September  30,  1885,  the  maintenance  of  the 
three  state  prisons  cost  about  $400,000.  Besides  10 
these  prisons  there  are  penitentiaries  at  New  York, 
Brooklyn,  Albany,  Syracuse,  Rochester  and  Buffalo, 
and  there  is  a  county  prison  in  each  county.  What 
all  these  cost  there  are  no  readily  accessible  statis- 
tics to  tell.  The  yearly  cost  of  the  police  in  the  city  15 
of  New  York  is  about  $3,700,000,  and  that  of  the 
criminal  courts  $300,000.  The  cost,  defrayed  from 
the  city  treasury,  of  prisons,  reformatories,  asylums, 
and  other  charitable  institutions  is  over  $3,000,000. 
The  expense  of  prisons  alone  is  with  difificulty  sepa-  20 
rated  from  the  rest.  These  are  approximate  fig- 
ures. It  is  hard  to  find  out  how  much  the  people  of 
this  state,  in  all  their  municipalities  and  political  di- 
visions, pay  for  police,  courts  and  prisons.  We 
know  that  the  amount  is  appalling.  Much  of  this,  25 
how  much  cannot  be  told,  might  be  saved  by  ful- 
filling the  scriptural  injunction :  "  Train  up  a  child 
in  the  way  he  should  go,-  and  when  he  is  old  he  will 
not  depart  from  it." 

The  question  of  safety  is  more  vital  still.     Every  30 
one  of  these  boys  may  be  a  voter  ten  or  twenty  years 
hence.     His  vote  will  then  be  as  potent  as  yours  or 
mine.     In  countries  where  the  sovereign  is  a  prince 
it  has  ever  been  thought  prudent  to  bestow  special 


THE    CHILD   AND    THE   STATE.  243 

care  upon  the  training  of  an  heir  to  the  throne. 
Here  the  people  are  sovereign,  and  the  Uttle  boy, 
now  wandering  about  the  streets,  neglected  or  led 
astray,  is  in  one  sense  joint  heir  to  a  throne.  Every 
5  dictate  of  prudence  points  to  his  being  fitted  to 
fulfill  the  duties  of  his  station.  Who  can  say  that  if 
duly  cared  for  he  may  not  grow  to  the  stature  of  a 
leader  of  the  people  ranking  with  the  foremost  men 
of  his  time,  a  benefactor  of  the  race,  a  teacher  of 

10  great  truths,  a  helper  of  the  helpless,  a  brave  sol- 
dier in  the  "  sacramental  host  of  God's  elect."  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  is  left  to  himself  in  the  swift 
current  of  want  and  vice,  floating  in  the  scum  of 
sewers  and  the  company  of  thieves,  he  will  prove  a 

15  scourge  to  the  state,  and  may  bring  up  in  a  prison, 
or  perchance  on  the  scaffold. 

For  this  reason,  and  the  one  preceding,  it  should 
seem  to  be  the  duty  of  the  community  to  look  after 
children  whose  parents  abandon  them  or  lead  them 

20  into  evil  ways,  or  are  incapable  of  taking  care  of 
them. 

We  have  already  in  many  instances  acted  upon 
a  like  theory.  The  compulsory  education  acts,  the 
corporations  formed  to  prevent  cruelty  to  children, 

25  and  the  unincorporated  societies  organized  for  their 
relief,  are  so  many  agencies  established  upon  this 
principle.  Take,  for  example,  the  eighth  section 
of  the  elementary  education  act  of  1874,  as  amended 
in  1876:  which  provides  that  the  board  of  educa- 

3otion  in  each  city  and  incorporated  village,  and  the 
trustees  of  the  school  districts  and  union  school  in 
each  town,  by  the  vote  of  a  majority  at  a  meeting 
called  for  the  purpose,  shall  make  all  needful  regu- 
lations concerning  habitual  truants  and  children  be- 


244  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

tween  the  ages  of  eight  and  fourteen,  who  may  be 
found  wandering  about  the  streets  or  pubHc  places 
during  school  hours,  having  no  lawful  occupation 
or  business,  and  growing  up  in  ignorance;  the  regu- 
lations to  be  such  as  in  the  judgment  of  the  board  5 
will  be  conducive  to  the  welfare  of  the  children,  and 
to  the  good  order  of  the  city  or  town,  and  to  be  ap- 
proved by  a  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court.  Suitable 
places  are  to  be  provided  for  the  discipline,  instruc- 
tion and  confinement,  when  necessary,  of  the  chil-  10 
dren,  and  the  aid  of  the  police  of  cities,  or  incor- 
porated villages,  and  constables  of  towns,  may  be 
required  to  enforce  the  regulations. 

The  Penal  Code  makes  it  a  crime  to  desert  a 
child  "with  intent  wholly  to  abandon  it"  (Sec.  15 
287),  or  to  omit  without  lawful  excuse  to  perform 
a  duty  imposed  by  law  to  "  furnish  food,  clothing, 
shelter  or  medical  attendance"  (Sec.  288),  or  will- 
fully to  permit  a  child's  "  life  to  be  endangered,  or 
its  health  to  be  injured,  or  its  morals  to  become  de-20 
praved  "  (Sec.  289),  or  "the  child  to  be  placed  in 
such  a  situation  or  to  engage  in  such  an  occupation  " 
as  that  any  of  these  things  may  happen.  Another 
section  (291)  provides  that  a  child  under  sixteen 
who  is  found  "  gathering  or  picking  rags,  cigar  25 
stumps,  bones  or  refuse  from  markets,"  or  without 
a  home,  or  improperly  exposed  or  neglected,  or  in  a 
state  of  want  or  suffering  or  destitute  of  means  of 
support,  being  an  orphan  or  being  in  certain  im- 
moral company,  "  must  be  arrested  and  brought  be-  30 
fore  a  proper  court  or  magistrate  as  a  vagrant,  dis- 
orderly or  destitute  child."  The  Code  of  Criminal 
Procedure  (Sec.  887)  declares,  as  vagrant,  any 
child  between  five  and  fourteen,  "  having  sufficient 


THE   CHILD  AND    THE   STATE.  245 

bodily  health  and  mental  capacity  to  attend  the  pub- 
lic schools,  found  wandering  in  the  streets  or  lanes 
of  any  city  or  incorporated  village,  a  truant  without 
any  lawful  occupation;  "  and  it  provides  in  the  next 
5  section  (888),  that  when  a  complaint  is  made 
against  any  such  vagrant,  the  magistrate  must 
cause  the  child  and  its  parent  to  be  brought  before 
him,  and  may  order  the  parent  to  take  care  of  the 
child,  and  if  he  does  not,  "  the  magistrate  shall,  by 

10  warrant,  commit  the  child  to  such  place  as  shall  be 
provided  for  his  reception."  If  no  such  place  has 
been  provided,  the  child  must  be  committed  to  the 
almshouse  of  the  county,  and  a  child  so  committed 
may  be  bound  out  as  an  apprentice.     A  child  found 

15  begging  (Sec.  893)  must  be  committed  to  the  poor- 
house,  and  there  kept  at  useful  labor  until  duly  dis- 
charged or  bound  out. 

These  are  very  sweeping  provisions,  but  they  are 
said  to  fail  of  the  effect  intended,  by  reason  of  de- 

20  fects  in  the  machinery  for  working  them.  Indeed, 
the  theory  upon  which  they  are  framed  is  in  some 
respects  erroneous.  A  child  under  twelve  should 
never  be  treated  as  a  criminal  except  after  convic- 
tion for  crime,  in  the  few  cases  in  which  a  child  be- 

25  tween  seven  and  twelve  may  be  convicted.  To  treat 
him  as  a  criminal  leaves  a  stigma,  which  after  years 
do  not  efface.  A  friend  who  visited  lately  one  of 
the  reformatory  schools  in  Boston  described  an  in- 
spection of  the  inmates,  noting  in  particular  the 

30  bearing  of  a  little  boy,  three  years  old,  who  went 
through  the  exercises  with  the  greatest  spirit,  in- 
telligence, and  glee.  Should  this  little  child  be 
classed  with  criminals,  brought  into  contact  with 
them,  or  be  exposed  ever  to  be  told  that  he  had  been 


246  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

SO  classed?  Our  laws  now  use  in  regard  to  such  a 
child  the  expressions  "  arrest,"  "  prefer  complaint," 
"  bring  before  a  magistrate  for  hearing."  and  the 
like.  When  the  word  "  arrest  "  is  used  in  respect  of 
legal  process  it  is  darkened  with  the  shadow  of  s 
criminality.  Why  not  say  "  take,"  or  better  still 
"  rescue."  A  child  under  seven  years  of  age  is,  and 
one  between  seven  and  twelve  is  presumed  to  be,  in- 
capable of  committing  crime.  A  policeman  finding 
such  a  child  homeless  should  be  required  to  bring  10 
him  before  an  officer  specially  charged  with  the  duty 
of  examining  such  cases,  not  a  police  justice.  The 
state  would  thus  appear  to  take  the  child  under  its 
protection  as  one  of  its  wards  or  children.  Such 
should  be  the  treatment  of  every  child  under  twelve  15 
years  of  age,  whatever  might  be  the  circumstances ; 
and  the  same  officer  should  be  the  one  to  decide 
in  the  first  instance  whether  a  child  between  seven 
and  twelve  should  be  sent  to  a  criminal  magistrate. 

When  a  child  not  charged  with  crime  is  brought  20 
before  such  an  officer  and  is  shown  to  be  abused  or 
abandoned,  what  should  be  done  with  him  and  with 
the  parent?     The  latter  should  be  required  to  sup- 
port the  child,  so  far  as  the  law  can  make  him  re- 
sponsible.    The  like  is  required  of  persons  classed  25 
as  disorderly  by  Section  901  of  the  Code  of  Criminal 
Procedure,' and  under  the  education  acts  is  also  re- 
quired of  parents  who  fail  to  send  their  children  to 
school.     How  to  reach  the  parent  is  a  question  for 
the  criminal  law,  with  which  we  arc  not  dealing  30 
at  present.     But  for  the  child,  what  should  be  done 
with  him?     Most  certainly  he  should  be  placed  in  a 
healthy  and  sufficient  home  and  taught  the  rudi- 
ments of  knowledge  and  honest  ways.     Here  the 


THE   CHILD  AND    THE   STATE.  247 

State  should  seek  the  aid  of  private  charity,  acting 
through  incorporated  institutions,  because  the  state 
can  in  this  way  best  control  the  institutions,  and 
look  after  the  treatment  and  welfare  of  the  chil- 

5  dren.  These  agencies  are  sufficient  for  the  present 
and  may  be  sufficient  always.  Show  the  people  the 
way  in  which  they  can  best  help  the  outcast,  and 
their  benevolence  will  supply  the  motive. 

If  these  views  are  sound,  they  lead  logically  to 

10  the  following  conclusions  : 

I.  That  there  should  be  a  public  guardian  of 
homeless  children  under  twelve  years  of  age,  whose 
duty  it  should  be  to  find  out  the  condition  and  treat- 
ment of  those  brought  before  him,  and  when  he 

15  sees  that  they  require  it,  to  place  them  in  some  insti- 
tution incorporated  for  the  care  of  such  children, 
to  be  kept  there  or  sent  by  them  to  homes  here  or 
in  other  states.  In  the  category  of  homeless  chil- 
dren  may   be   included   not  only   orphans    without 

20  homes,  but  all  children  under  twelve  years  of  age 
who  are  abandoned  by  their  parents  or  so  neg- 
lected or  abused  as  to  require  that  they  should  be 
taken  in  charge. 

II.  That  every  police  officer  should  be  required 
25  and  every  citizen  should  be  permitted  to  bring  a 

homeless  child  before  this  guardian. 

III.  That  a  child  under  seven  years  of  age  should 
never  under  any  circumstances  be  treated  as  a 
criminal,   and   a  child   between   seven   and   twelve 

30  should  not  be  so  treated  until  he  has  been  examined 
by  the  guardian  and  by  him  sent  to  the  criminal 
magistrate.  No  child  under  twelve  should  ever  be 
left  in  the  society  of  criminals  under  any  circum- 
stances whatever. 


248  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

This  paper  has  already  reached  the  Hmit  intended. 
It  has  not  gone  into  particulars :  on  the  contrary, 
it  has  been  carefully  confined  to  certain  general 
propositions.  Their  development  and  execution  are 
matters  of  detail.  The  aim  of  the  article  is  attained,  5 
if  it  has  helped  to  impress  upon  the  reader  this  les- 
son, partly  social  and  partly  political :  Take  care  of 
the  children  and  the  men  and  women  will  take  care 
of  themselves. 

Notes. — This  argument  is  typical  of  a  large  class,  those  10 
not  intended  for  oral  delivery.  Magazines  and  editorial 
columns  acquire  an  incalculable  influence  through  such 
arguments.  The  force  of  this  one  by  the  eminent  jurist 
Field  springs  chiefly  from  {a)  its  appeal  to  two  deep-seated 
selfish  emotions,  the  love  of  money  and  the  instinct  of  15 
self-defense  ; '  {b)  its  definite  formulation  of  practicable 
measures.  The  practicability  of  these  measures  is  made 
clear  by  the  citing  of  precedents  which  have  proved  prac- 
ticable. The  use  of  precedents  is  a  fundamental  principle, 
or  let  us  say  habit,  in  English  and  American  law,  whereas  20 
Roman  law  made  use  of  codal  authority, '•'  The  proposed 
measures  derive  an  added  appearance  of  practicability 
from  the  character  of  the  author  himself.  The  eminence 
of  Field  as  the  framer  of  American  law-codes  and  as  a 
master  of  constitutional  law    cannot    but    influence   the  25 

'  As  we- see  from  Dr.  Field's  words,  he  might  have  made 
an  appeal  to  the  religious  and  ethical  sentiments,  but  that 
he  thought  it  the  business  of  the  state  to  proceed  on  the 
selfish  basis.  For  a  moving  appeal,  on  this  same  subject, 
to  the  religious  and  ethical  sentiments  and  to  the  imagina-  30 
tion,  see  Phillips  Brooks's  speech  at  Philadelphia  in  behalf 
of  the  Children's  Aid  Society,  in  "  Essays  and  Addresses  " 
(Dutton). 

-vSee  Sir  Henry  Maine,  "Village  Communities,  etc.,"  p. 
330  ff.  35 


THE  MANLY    VIRTUES  AND  POLITICS.      249 

reader  who  is  aware  of  it.  The  ancient  writers  on  rhetoric 
are  somewhat  divided  in  mind  as  to  how  much  weight  is 
lent  to  an  argument  by  the  character  of  the  speaker 
(^^oj  iv  TV  \iyovTC) ;  but  most  of  them  follow  Aristotle  in 
5  ranking  this  means  of  proof  (tt/o-tis)  among  the  principal 
ones.  Compare  Emerson's  remark,  "  What  you  are  speaks 
so  loud  that  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say." 


52.— ^be  /iBanlB  virtues  an&  ipracttcal  politics.' 

THEODORE    ROOSEVELT. 

Sometimes,  in  addressing  men  who  sincerely  de- 
sire the  betterment  of  our  public  affairs,  but  who 

10  have  not  taken  active  part  in  directing  them,  I  feel 
tempted  to  tell  them  that  there  are  two  gospels 
which  should  be  preached  to  every  reformer.  The 
first  is  the  gospel  of  morality ;  the  second  is  the 
gospel  of  efficiency. 

15  To  decent,  upright  citizens  it  is  hardly  necessary 
to  preach  the  doctrine  of  morality  as  applied  to  the 
affairs  of  public  life.  It  is  an  even  graver  offense 
to  sin  against  the  commonwealth  than  to  sin  against 
an  individual.     The  man  who  debauches  our  public 

20  life,  whether  by  malversation  of  funds  in  office,  by 
the  actual  bribery  of  voters  or  of  legislators,  or  by 
the  corrupt  use  of  the  offices  as  spoils  wherewith  to 
reward  the  unworthy  and  the  vicious  for  their  nox- 
ious and  interested  activity  in  the  baser  walks  of 

25  political  life, — this  man  is  a  greater  foe  to  our  well- 
being  as  a  nation  than  is  even  the  defaulting  cash- 
ier of  a  bank,  or  the  betrayer  of  a  private  trust. 

1  Reprinted  from  "American  Ideals,"  by  permission  of  Messrs. 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 


25^  ARGUMENTATION. 

No  amount  of  intelligence  and  no  amount  of  energy 
will  save  a  nation  which  is  not  honest,  and  no  gov- 
ernment can  ever  be  a  permanent  success  if  admin- 
istered in  accordance  with  base  ideals.  The  first 
requisite  in  the  citizen  who  wishes  to  share  the  5 
work  of  our  public  life,  whether  he  wishes  himself 
to  hold  office  or  merely  to  do  his  plain  duty  as  an 
American  by  taking  part  in  the  management  of  our 
political  machinery,  is  that  he  shall  act  disinter- 
estedly and  with  a  sincere  purpose  to  serve  the  10 
whole  commonwealth. 

But  disinterestedness  and  honesty  and  unselfish 
desire  to  do  what  is  right  are  not  enough  in  them- 
selves. A  man  must  not  only  be  disinterested,  but 
he  must  be  efficient.  If  he  goes  into  politics  he  15 
must  go  into  practical  politics,  in  order  to  make 
his  influence  felt.  Practical  politics  must  not  be 
construed  to  mean  dirty  politics.  On  the  contrary, 
in  the  long  run  the  politics  of  fraud  and  treachery 
and  foulness  are  unpractical  politics,  and  the  most  20 
practical  of  all  politicians  is  the  politician  who  is 
clean  and  decent  and  upright.  But  a  man  who 
goes  into  the  actual  battles  of  the  political  world 
must  prepare  himself  much  as  he  would  for  the 
struggle  in  any  other  branch  of  our  life.  He  must  25 
be  prepared  to  meet  men  of  far  lower  ideals  than 
his  own,  and  to  face  things,  not  as  he  would  wish 
them,  but  as  they  are.  He  must  not  lose  his  own 
high  ideal,  and  yet  he  must  face  the  fact  that  the 
majority  of  the  men  with  whom  he  must  work  have  30 
lower  ideals.  He  must  stand  firmly  for  what  he 
believes,  and  yet  he  must  realize  that  political  ac- 
tion, to  be  effective,  must  be  the  joint  action  of 
many  men,  and  that  he  must  sacrifice  somewhat  of 


THE  MANLY    VIRTUES  AND  POLITICS.      25 1 

his  own  opinions  to  those  of  his  associates  if  he 
ever  hopes  to  see  his  desires  take  practical  shape. 

The  prime  thing  that  every  man  who  takes  an 
interest  in  poHtics  should  remember  is  that  he  must 
5  act,  and  not  merely  criticise  the  actions  of  others. 
It  is  not  the  man  who  sits  by  his  fireside  reading 
his  evening  paper,  and  saying  how  bad  our  politics 
and  politicians  are,  who  will  ever  do  anything  to 
save  us ;  it  is  the  man  who  goes  out  into  the  rough 

10  hurly-burly  of  the  caucus,  the  primary,  and  the 
political  meeting,  and  there  faces  his  fellows  on 
equal  terms.  The  real  service  is  rendered,  not  by 
the  critic  who  stands  aloof  from  the  contest,  but  by 
the  man  who  enters  into  it  and  bears  his  part  as  a 

15  man  should,  underterred  by  the  blood  and  the  sweat. 
It  is  a  pleasant  but  a  dangerous  thing  to  associate 
merely  with  cultivated,  refined  men  of  high  ideals 
and  sincere  purpose  to  do  right,  and  to  think  that 
one  has  done  all  one's  duty  by  discussing  politics 

20  with  such  associates.  It  is  a  good  thing  to  meet 
men  of  this  stamp ;  indeed  it  is  a  necessary  thing,  for 
we  thereby  brighten  our  ideals,  and  keep  in  touch 
with  the  people  who  are  unselfish  in  their  purposes ; 
but  if  we  associate  with  such  men  exclusively  we 

25  can  accomplish  nothing.  The  actual  battle  must  be 
fought  out  on  other  and  less  pleasant  fields.  The 
actual  advance  must  be  made  in  the  field  of  practical 
politics  among  the  men  who  represent  or  guide  or 
control  the  mass  of  the  voters,  the  men  who  are 

30  sometimes  rough  and  coarse,  who  sometimes  have 
lower  ideals  than  they  should,  but  who  are  capable, 
masterful,  and  efficient.  It  is  only  by  mingling  on 
equal  terms  with  such  men,  by  showing  them  that 
one  is  able  to  give  and  to  receive  heavy  punishment 


252  ARGUMEN TA  TION. 

without  flinching,  and  that  one  can  master  the  de- 
tails of  political  management  as  well  as  they  can, 
that  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  establish  a  standing 
that  will  be  useful  to  him  in  fighting  for  a  great  re- 
form.    Every  man  who  wishes  well  to  his  country   5 
is  in  honor  bound  to  take  an  active  part  in  political 
life.     If  he  does  his  duty  and  takes  that  active  part 
he  will  be  sure  occasionally  to  commit  mistakes  and 
to  be  guilty  of  shortcomings.     For  these  mistakes 
and  shortcomings  he  will  receive  the  unmeasured  10 
denunciation  of  the  critics  who  commit  neither  be- 
cause they  never  do  anything  but  criticise.     Never- 
theless he  will  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
the  salvation  of  the  country  ultimately  lies,  not  in 
the  hands  of  his  critics,  but  in  the  hands  of  those  15 
who,  however  imperfectly,  actually  do  the  work  of 
the  nation.     I  would  not  for  one  moment  be  under- 
stood as  objecting  to  criticism  or  failing  to  appre- 
ciate its  importance.     We  need  fearless  criticism  of 
our  public  men  and  public  parties ;  we  need  un-  2c 
sparing  condemnation  of  all  persons  and  all  princi- 
ples that  count  for  evil  in  our  public  life :  but  it  be- 
hooves every  man  to  remember  that  the  work  of  the 
critic,  important  though  it  is,  is  of  altogether  sec- 
ondary importance,  and  that,  in  the  end,  progress  is  25 
accomplished  by  the  man  who  does  the  things,  and 
not  by  the  man  who  talks  about  how  they  ought  or 
ought  not  to  be  done. 

Therefore  the  man  who  wishes  to  do  good  in  his 
community  must  go  into  active  political  life.  If  he  30 
is  a  Republican,  let  him  join  his  local  Republican 
association ;  if  a  Democrat,  the  Democratic  asso- 
ciation ;  if  an  Independent,  then  let  him  put  him- 
self in  touch  with  those  who  think  as  he  does.     In 


THE  MANLY   VIRTUES  AND  POLITICS.      253 

any  event  let  him  make  himself  an  active  force  and 
make  his  influence  felt.  Whether  he  works  within 
or  without  party  lines  he  can  surely  find  plenty  of 
men  who  are  desirous  of  good  government,  and 
5  who,  if  they  act  together,  become  at  once  a  power 
on  the  side  of  righteousness.  Of  course,  in  a  gov- 
ernment like  ours,  a  man  can  accomplish  anything 
only  by  acting  in  combination  with  others,  and 
equally  of  course,  a  number  of  people  can  act  to- 

10  gether  only  by  each  sacrificing  certain  of  his  beliefs 
or  prejudices.  That  man  is  indeed  unfortunate  who 
cannot  in  any  given  district  find  some  people  with 
whom  he  can  conscientiously  act.  He  may  find 
that  he  can  do  best  by  acting  within  a  party  organ- 

15  ization ;  he  may  find  that  he  can  do  best  by  acting, 
at  least  for  certain  purposes,  or  at  certain  times,  out- 
side of  party  organizations,  in  an  independent  body 
of  some  kind ;  but  with  some  association  he  must. 
act  if  he  wishes  to  exert  any  real  influence. 

20  One  thing  to  be  always  remembered  is  that 
neither  independence  on  the  one  hand  nor  party 
fealty  on  the  other  can  ever  be  accepted  as  an  ex- 
cuse for  failure  to  do  active  work  in  politics.  The 
party  man  who  offers  his  allegiance  to  party  as  an 

25  excuse  for  blindly  follovv'ing  his  party,  right  or 
wrong,  and  who  fails  to  try  to  make  that  party  in 
any  way  better,  com.mits  a  crime  against  the  coun- 
try ;  and  a  crime  quite  as  serious  is  committed  by  the 
independent  who  makes  his  independence  an  ex- 

3oCUse  for  easy  self-indulgence,  and  who  thinks  that 
when  he  says  he  belongs  to  neither  party  he  is  ex- 
cused from  the  duty  of  taking  part  in  the  practical 
work  of  party  organizations.  The  party  man  is 
bound  to  do  his  full  share  in  party  management.  He 


254  ARC UMEN TA  TION. 

is  bound  to  attend  the  caucuses  and  the  primaries, to 
see  that  only  good  men  are  put  up,  and  to  exert  his 
influence  as  strenuously  against  the  foes  of  good 
government  within  his  party,  as,  through  his  party 
machinery,  he  does  against  those  who  are  without  5 
the  party.  In  the  same  way  the  independent,  if  he 
cannot  take  part  in  the  regular  organizations,  is 
bound  to  do  just  as  much  active  constructive  work 
(not  merely  the  work  of  criticism)  outside;  he  is 
bound  to  try  to  get  up  an  organization  of  his  own  10 
and  to  try  to  make  that  organization  felt  in  some 
effective  manner.  Whatever  course  the  man  who 
wishes  to  do  his  duty  by  his  country  takes  in  refer- 
ence to  parties  or  to  independence  of  parties,  he  is 
bound  to  liy  to  put  himself  in  touch  with  men  who  15 
think  as  he  does,  and  to  help  make  their  joint  in- 
fluence felt  in  behalf  of  the  powers  that  go  for  de- 
cency and  good  government.  He  must  try  to  ac- 
complish things ;  he  must  not  vote  in  the  air  unless 
it  is  really  necessary.  Occasionally  a  man  must  20 
cast  a  "  conscience  vote,"  when  there  is  no  possi- 
bility of  carrying  to  victory  his  principles  or  his 
nominees ;  at  times,  indeed,  this  may  be  his  highest 
duty ;  but  ordinarily  this  is  not  the  case.  As  a  gen- 
eral rule  a  man  ought  to  work  and  vote  for  some-  25 
thing  'which  there  is  at  least  a  fair  chance  of  put- 
ting into  effect. 

Yet  another  thing  to  be  remembered  by  the  man 
who  wishes  to  make  his  influence  felt  for  good  in 
our  politics  is  that  he  must  act  purely  as  an  Ameri-  30 
can.  If  he  is  not  deeply  imbued  with  the  American 
spirit  he  cannot  succeed.  Any  organization  which 
tries  to  work  along  the  line  of  caste  or  creed,  which 
fails  to  treat  all  American  citizens  on  their  merits  as 


THE  MANLY   VIRTUES  AND  POLITICS.      255 

men,  will  fail,  and  will  deserve  to  fail.  Where  our 
political  life  is  healthy,  there  is  and  can  be  no  room 
for  any  movement  organized  to  help  or  to  antago- 
nize men  because  they  do  or  do  not  profess  a  certain 
5  religion,  or  because  they  were  or  were  not  born  here 
or  abroad.  We  have  a  right  to  ask  that  those  with 
whom  we  associate,  and  those  for  whom  we  vote, 
shall  be  themselves  good  Americans  in  heart  and 
spirit,  unhampered  by  adherence  to  foreign  ideals, 
10  and  acting  without  regard  to  the  national  and  reli- 
gious prejudices  of  European  countries;  but  if  they 
really  are  good  Americans  in  spirit  and  thought  and 
purpose,  that  is  all  that  we  have  any  right  to  con- 
sider in  regard  to  them.  In  the  same  way  there 
15  must  be  no  discrimination  for  or  against  any  man 
because  of  his  social  standing.  On  the  one  side, 
there  is  nothing  to  be  made  out  of  a  political  organi- 
zation which  draws  an  exclusive  social  line,  and  on 
the  other  it  must  be  remembered  that  it  is  just  as  un- 
co American  to  vote  against  a  man  because  he  is  rich 
as  to  vote  against  him  because  he  is  poor.  The  one 
man  has  just  as  much  right  as  the  other  to  claim  to 
be  treated  purely  on  his  merits  as  a  man.  In  short, 
to  do  good  work  in  politics,  the  men  who  organize 
25  must  organize  v/holly  without  regard  to  whether 
their  associates  were  born  here  or  abroad,  whether 
they  are  Protestants  or  Catholics,  Jews  or  Gentiles, 
whether  they  are  bankers  or  butchers,  professors  or 
day-laborers.  All  that  can  rightly  be  asked  of  one's 
30  political  associates  is  that  they  shall  be  honest  men, 
good  Americans,  and  substantially  in  accord  as  re- 
gards their  political  ideas. 

Another  thing  that  must  not  be  forgotten  by  the 
man  desirous  of  doing  good  political  work  is  the 


256  ARGUMEN  TA  TION. 

need  of  the  rougher,  manlier  virtues,  and  above  all 
the  virtue  of  personal  courage,  physical  as  well  as 
moral.  If  we  wish  to  do  good  worlv  for  our  country 
we  must  be  unselfish,  disinterested,  sincerely  desir- 
ous of  the  well-being  of  the  commonwealth,  and  ca-  5 
pable  of  devoted  adherence  to  a  lofty  ideal ;  but  in 
addition  we  must  be  vigorous  in  mind  and  body, 
able  to  hold  our  own  in  rough  conflict  with  our  fel- 
lows, able  to  suffer  punishment  without  flinching, 
and,  at  need,  repay  it  in  kind  with  full  interest.  A  10 
peaceful  and  commercial  civilization  is  always  in 
danger  of  suffering  the  loss  of  the  virile  fighting 
qualities  without  which  no  nation,  however  cul- 
tured, however  refined,  however  thrifty  and  prosper- 
ous, can  ever  amount  to  anything.  Every  citizen  15 
should  be  taught,  both  in  public  and  in  private  life, 
that  while  he  must  avoid  brawling  and  quarreling,  it 
is  his  duty  to  stand  up  for  his  rights.  He  must  real- 
ize that  the  only  man  who  is  more  contemptible  than 
the  blusterer  and  bully  is  the  coward.  No  man  20 
is  worth  much  to  the  commonwealth  if  he  is  not  ca- 
pable of  feeling  righteous  wrath  and  just  indigna- 
tion, if  he  is  not  stirred  to  hot  anger  by  misdoing, 
and  is  not  impelled  to  see  justice  meted  out  to  the 
wrongdoers.  No  man  is  worth  much  anywhere  if  25 
he  does  not  possess  both  moral  and  physical  cour- 
age. A  politician  who  really  serves  his  country 
well,  and  deserves  his  country's  gratitude,  must  usu- 
ally possess  some  of  the  hardy  virtues  which  we  ad- 
mire in  the  soldier  who  serves  his  country  well  in  30 
the  field. 

An  ardent  young  reformer  is  very  apt  to  try  to 
begin  by  reforming  too  much.  He  needs  always  to 
keep  in  mind  that  he  has  got  to  serve  as  a  sergeant 


THE  mANLY    VIRTUES  AND  POLITICS.      257 

before  he  assumes  the  duties  of  commander  in 
chief.  It  is  right  for  him  from  the  beginning  to 
take  a  great  interest  in  national,  State,  and  muni- 
cipal affairs,  and  to  try  to  make  himself  felt  in  them 
5  if  the  occasion  arises ;  but  the  best  work  must  be 
done  by  the  citizen  working  in  his  own  \vard  or  dis- . 
trict.  Let  him  associate  himself  Vv'ith  the  men  who 
think  as  he  does,  and  who,  like  him,  are  sincerely  de- 
voted to  the  public  good.     Then  let  them  try  to 

10  make  themselves  felt  in  the  choice  of  alderman,  of 
councilman,  of  assemblyman.  The  politicians  will 
be  prompt  to  recognize  their  power,  and  the  peo- 
ple will  recognize  it  too,  after  a  while.  Let  them 
organize  and  work,  undaunted  by  any  temporary 

15  defeat.  If  they  fail  at  first,  and  if  they  fail  again, 
let  them  merely  make  up  their  minds  to  redouble 
their  efforts,  and  perhaps  alter  their  methods ;  but 
let  them  keep  on  working. 

It  is  sheer  unmanliness  and  cowardice  to  shrink 

20  from  the  contest  because  at  first  there  is  failure,  or 
because  the  work  is  difficult  or  repulsive.  No  man 
who  is  worth  his  salt  has  any  right  to  abandon  the 
eft'ort  to  better  our  policies  merely  because  he  does 
not  find  it  pleasant,  merely  because  it  entails  associa- 

25  tions  which  to  him  happen  to  be  disagreeable.  Let 
him  keep  right  on,  taking  the  buffets  he  gets  good- 
humoredly.and  repaying  them  with  heartiness  when 
the  chance  arises.  Let  him  make  up  his  mind  that 
he  will  have  to  face  the  violent  opposition  of  the 

30  spoils  politician,  and  also,  too  often,  the  unfair  and 
ungenerous  criticism  of  those  who  ought  to  know 
better.  Let  him  be  careful  not  to  show  himself  so 
thin-skinned  as  to  mind  either;  let  him  fight  his 
way  forward,  paying  only  so  much  regard  to  both  as 


258  ARG  UMENTA  TION. 

is  necessary  to  enable  him  to  win  in  spite  of  them. 
He  may  not,  and  indeed  probably  will  not,  accom- 
plish nearly  as  much  as  he  would  like  to,  or  as  he 
thinks  he  ought  to :  but  he  will  certainly  accomplish 
something ;  and  if  he  can  feel  that  he  has  helped  to  5 
elevate  the  type  of  representative  sent  to  the  muni- 
cipal, the  State,  or  the  national  legislature  from  his 
district,  or  to  elevate  the  standard  of  duty  among  the 
public  officials  in  his  own  ward,  he  has  a  right  to  be 
profoundly  satisfied  with  what  he  has  accomplished.  10 

Finally,  there  is  one  other  matter  which  the  man 
who  tries  to  wake  his  fellows  to  higher  political  ac- 
tion would  do  well  to  ponder.  It  is  a  good  thing  to 
appeal  to  citizens  to  work  for  good  government  be- 
cause it  will  better  their  estate  materially,  but  it  is  a  15 
far  better  thing  to  appeal  to  them  to  work  for  good 
government  because  it  is  right  in  itself  to  do  so. 
Doubtless,  if  we  can  have  clean,  honest  politics,  we 
shall  be  better  off  in  material  matters.  A  thor- 
oughly pure,  upright,  and  capable  administration  of  20 
the  affairs  of  New  York  city  results  in  a  very  appre- 
ciable increase  of  comfort  to  each  citizen.  We 
should  have  better  systems  of  transportation ;  we 
should  have  cleaner  streets,  better  sewers,  and  the 
like.  But  it  is  sometimes  difficult  to  show  the  indi-  25 
vidual  citizen  that  he  will  be  individually  better  off 
in  his  business  and  in  his  home  affairs  for  taking 
part  in  politics.  I  do  not  think  it  is  always  worth 
while  to  show  that  this  will  always  be  the  case. 
The  citizen  should  be  appealed  to  primarily  on  the  30 
ground  that  it  is  his  plain  duty,  if  he  wishes  to  de- 
serve the  name  of  freeman,  to  do  his  full  share  in 
the  hard  and  difficult  work  of  self-government.  He 
must  do  his  share  unless  he  is  willing  to  prove  him- 


THE  MANLY   VIRTUES  AND  POLITICS.      259 

self  unfit  for  free  institutions,  fit  only  to  live  under 
a  government  where  he  will  be  plundered  and  bul- 
lied because  he  deserves  to  be  plundered  and  bullied 
on  account  of  his  selfish  timidity  and  short-sighted- 
5  ness.  A  clean  and  decent  government  is  sure  in 
the  end  to  benefit  our  citizens  in  the  material  cir- 
cumstances of  their  lives ;  but  each  citizen  should  be 
appealed  to,  to  take  part  in  bettering  our  politics, 
not  for  the  sake  of  any  possible  improvement  it  may 

10  bring  to  his  affairs,  but  on  the  ground  that  it  is  his 
plain  duty  to  do  so,  and  that  this  is  a  duty  which  it 
is  cowardly  and  dishonorable  in  him  to  shirk. 

To  sum  up,  then,  the  men  who  wish  to  work  for 
decent  politics  must  work  practically,  and  yet  must 

15  not  swerve  from  their  devotion  to  a  high  ideal. 
They  must  actually  do  things,  and  not  merely  con- 
fine themselves  to  criticising  those  who  do  them. 
They  must  work  disinterestedly,  and  appeal  to  the 
disinterested  element  in  others,  although  they  must 

20  also  do  work  which  will  result  in  the  material  bet- 
terment of  the  community.  They  must  act  as 
Americans  through  and  through,  in  spirit  and  hope 
and  purpose,  and,  while  being  disinterested,  unself- 
ish, and  generous  in  their  dealings  with  others,  they 

25  must  also  show  that  they  possess  the  essential  manly 
virtues  of  energy,  of  resolution,  and  of  indomitable 
personal  courage. 

Notes. — This  short  argument  is  praiseworthy  first  for 
structure.  It  consists  of  a  dozen  paragraphs,  of  which 
50  the  first  states  the  two-fold  proposition.  The  next 
two  treat  the  proposition  in  general.  Then  follow  eight 
arguments,  or  rather  appeals,  and  finally  a  paragraph 
of  summary.  The  argument  is  praiseworthy  also  for 
the  directness  of  its  app&ai  to  the  emotions  of  courage 


2  6o  ARGUMEN  TA  TION. 

and  endurance.  These  emotions  once  aroused,  the  per- 
suasion intended  is  easy.  The  complex  difficulties  of  the 
tasks  under  discussion  are  not  argued  away,  but  the 
reader  is  made  to  feel  that  they  will  partly  recede  before 
the  courageous  attitude,  and  can  partly  be  overcome  by 
persistent  effort.  Although  an  ideal  argument  addresses 
the  will  through  the  intellect,  yet  if  the  will  can  be  some-  5 
what  stirred  early  in  the  argument,  the  task  of  convincing 
the  intellect  is  much  reduced. 


53,— ©n  tbe  IRepeal  of  tbe  "Glnion  with  ITrelanO, 

SPEECH    OF 
THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY 

(m.    p.    for   LEEDS). 
(House  of  Comtnons — February  b,  1833.) 

Last  night,  Sir,  I  thought  that  it  would  not  be  «o 
necessary  for  me  to  take  any  part  in  the  present  de- 
bate :  but  the  appeal  which  has  this  evening  been 
made  to  me  by  my  honorable  friend  the  member 
for  Lincoln  *  has  forced  me  to  rise.  I  will,  how- 
ever, postpone  the  few  words  which  I  have  to  say  in  15 
defense  of  my  own  consistency,  till  I  have  expressed 
my  opinion  on  the  much  more  important  subject 
which  is  before  the  House. 

My  honorable  friend  tells  us  that  we  are  now 
called  upon  to  make  a  choice  between  two  modes  20 
of  pacifying  Ireland;  that  the  government  recom- 
mends coercion ;  that  the  honorable  and  learned 
member  for  Dublin  f  recommends  redress ;  and  that 
it  is  our  duty  to  try  the  effect  of  redress  before  we 
have  recourse  to  coercion.     The  antithesis  is  framed  25 

*  Mr.  Edward  Lytton  Bulwer.  f  Mr.  O'Connell. 


REPEAL  OF  THE  UNWN  WITH  IRELAND.      261 

with  all  the  ingenuity  which  is  characteristic  of  my 
honorable  friend's  style;  but  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that,  on  this  occasion,  his  ingenuity  has  imposed  on 
himself,  and  that  he  has  not  sufficiently  considered 
5  the  meaning  of  the  pointed  phrase  which  he  used 
with  so  much  effect.  Redress  is  no  doubt  a  very 
well  sounding  word.  What  can  be  more  reasonable 
than  to  ask  for  redress?  What  more  unjust  than 
to  refuse  redress?     But  my  honorable  friend  will 

10  perceive,  on  reflection,  that,  though  he  and  the  hon- 
orable and  learned  member  for  Dublin  agree  in  pro- 
nouncing the  word  redress,  they  agree  in  nothing 
else.  They  utter  the  same  sound ;  but  they  attach 
to    it   two    diametrically    opposed    meanings.     The 

15  honorable  and  learned  member  for  Dublin  means  by 
redress  simply  the  Repeal  of  the  Union.  Now,  to 
the  Repeal  of  the  Union  my  honorable  friend  the 
member  for  Lincoln  is  decidedly  adverse.  When 
we  get  at  his  real  meaning,  we  find  that  he  is  just 

20  as  unwilling  as  we  are  to  give  the  redress  which  the 
honorable  and  learned  member  for  Dublin  de- 
mands. Only  a  small  minority  of  the  House  will, 
I  hope  and  believe,  vote  with  that  honorable  and 
learned  member;  but  the  minority  which  thinks 

25  with  him  will  be  very  much  smaller. 

We  have,  indeed,  been  told  by  some  gentlemen 
who  are  not  themselves  repealers,  that  the  question 
of  Repeal  deserves  a  much  more  serious  considera- 
tion than  it  has  yet  received.     Repeal,  they  say,  is 

30  an  object  on  which  millions  have,  however  unwisely, 
set  their  hearts :  and  men  who  speak  in  the  name  of 
millions  are  not  to  be  coughed  down  or  sneered 
down.  That  which  a  suffering  nation  regards, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  as  the  sole  cure  for  all  its  dis- 


262  ARGUMENTATION. 

tempers,  ought  not  to  be  treated  with  levity,  but  to 
be  the  subject  of  full  and  solemn  debate.  All  this. 
Sir,  is  most  true:  but  I  am  surprised  that  this  lec- 
ture should  have  been  read  to  us  who  sit  on  your 
right.  It  would,  I  apprehend,  have  been  with  more  5 
propriety  addressed  to  a  different  quarter.  Whose 
fault  is  it  that  we  have  not  yet  had,  and  that  there 
is  no  prospect  of  our  having,  this  full  and  solemn 
debate?  Is  it  the  fault  of  his  Majesty's  Ministers? 
Have  not  they  framed  the  Speech  which  their  Royal  10 
Master  delivered  from  the  throne,  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  invite  the  grave  and  searching  discussion  of 
the  question  of  Repeal?  And  has  not  the  invita- 
tion been  declined?  Is  it  not  fresh  in  our  recollec- 
tion that  the  honorable  and  learned  member  for  15 
Dublin  spoke  two  hours,  perhaps  three  hours, — 
nobody  keeps  accurate  account  of  time  while  he 
speaks, — but  two  or  three  hours  without  venturing 
to  join  issue  with  us  on  this  subject?  In  truth,  he 
suffered  judgment  to  go  against  him  by  default.  20 
We  on  this  side  of  the  House  did  our  best  to  pro- 
voke him  to  the  conflict.  We  called  on  him  to  main- 
tain here  those  doctrines  which  he  had  proclaimed 
elsewhere  with  so  much  vehemence,  and,  I  am  sorry 
to  be  forced  to  add,  with  a  scurrility  unworthy  of  25 
his  parts  and  eloquence.  Never  was  a  challenge 
more  fairly  given ;  but  it  was  not  accepted.  The 
great  champion  of  Repeal  would  not  lift  our  glove. 
He  shrank  back;  he  skulked  away;  not,  assuredly, 
from  distrust  of  hi^  powers,  which  have  never  been  30 
more  vigorously  exerted  than  in  this  debate,  but 
evidently  from  distrust  of  his  cause.  I  have  seldom 
heard  so  able  a  speech  as  his :  I  certainly  never 
heard  a  speech  so  evasive.     From  the  beginning  to 


REPEAL  OF  THE  UNION  WITH  IRELAND.      ^63 

the  end  he  studiously  avoided  saying  a  single  vord 
tending  to  raise  a  discussion  about  that  Repeal 
which,  in  other  places,  he  constaiitly  affirms  to  be 
the  sole  panacea  for  all  the  evils  by  which  his  coun- 
5  try  is  afflicted.  Nor  is  this  all.  Yesterday  night 
he  placed  on  our  order  book  not  less  than  fourteen 
notices;  and  of  those  notices  not  a  single  one  had 
any  reference  to  the  Union  between  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland.     It  is  therefore  evident  to  me,  not  only 

10  that  the  honorable  and  learned  gentleman  is  not  now 
prepared  to  debate  the  question  in  this  House,  but 
that  he  has  no  intention  of  debating  it  in  this  House 
at  all.  He  keeps  it,  and  prudently  keeps  it,  for  au- 
diences of  a  very  different  kind.     I  am  therefore,  I 

15  repeat,  surprised  to  hear  the  government  accused 
of  avoiding  the  discussion  of  this  subject.  Why 
should  we  avoid  a  battle  in  which  the  bold  and  skill- 
ful captain  of  the  enemy  evidently  knows  that  we 
must  be  victorious? 

20  One  gentleman,  though  not  a  repealer,  has  begged 
us  not  to  declare  ourselves  decidedly  adverse  to  Re- 
peal till  we  have  studied  the  petitions  which  are 
coming  in  from  Ireland.  Really,  Sir,  this  is  not  a 
subject  on  which  any  public  man  ought  to  be  now 

25  making  up  his  mind.  My  mind  is  made  up.  My 
reasons  are  such  as,  I  am  certain,  no  petition  from 
Ireland  will  confute.  Those  reasons  have  long  been 
ready  to  be  produced ;  and,  since  we  are  accused  of 
flinching,  I  will  at  once  produce  them.     I  am  pre- 

30  pared  to  show  that  the  Repeal  of  the  Union  would 
not  remove  the  political  and  social  evils  which  af- 
flict Ireland,  nay,  that  it  would  aggravate  almost 
every  one  of  those  evils. 

I  understand,  though  I  do  not  approve,  the  pro 


2^4  ARGUMENTA  i  lON. 

ceedings  of  poor  Wolfe  Tone  and  his  confederates. 
They  wished  to  make  a  complete  separation  be- 
tween Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  They  wished  to 
establish  a  Hibernian  republic.  Their  plan  was  a 
very  bad  one;  but,  to  do  them  justice,  it  was  per-  6 
fectly  consistent ;  and  an  ingenious  man  might  de- 
fend it  by  some  plausible  arguments.  But  that  is 
not  the  plan  of  the  honorable  and  learned  member 
for  Dublin.  He  assures  us  that  he  wishes  the  con- 
nection between  the  islands  to  be  perpetual.  He  is  lo 
for  a  complete  separation  between  the  two  parlia- 
ments ;  but  he  is  for  indissoluble  union  between  the 
two  Crowns.  Nor  does  the  honorable  and  learned 
gentleman  mean,  by  an  union  between  the  Crowns, 
such  an  union  as  exists  between  the  Crown  15 
of  this  kingdom  and  the  Crown  of  Hanover, 
For  I  need  not  say  that,  though  the  same  per- 
son is  king  of  Great  Britain  and  of  Hanover, 
there  is  no  more  political  connection  between 
Great  Britain  and  Hanover  than  between  Great  20 
Britain  and  Hesse,  or  between  Great  Britain  and 
Bavaria.  Hanover  may  be  at  peace  with  a  state 
Vv^ith  which  Great  Britain  is  at  war.  Nay,  Hanover 
may,  as  a  member  of  the  Germanic  body,  send  a 
contingent  of  troops  to  cross  bayonets  with  the  25 
king's  English  footguards.  This  is  not  the  relation 
in  which  the  honorable  and  learned  gentleman  pro- 
poses that  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  should  stand 
to  each  other.  His  plan  is,  that  each  of  the  two 
countries  shall  have  an  independent  legislature,  but  30 
that  both  shall  have  the  same  executive  government. 
Now  is  it  possible  that  a  mind  so  acute  and  so  well 
informed  as  his  should  not  at  once  perceive  that 
this  plan  involves  an  absurdity,  a  downright  contra- 


REPEAL  OF  THE  UNION  WITH  IRELAND.      265 

diction?  Two  independent  legislatures!  One  ex- 
ecutive government !  How  can  the  thing  be  ?  No 
doubt,  if  the  legislative  power  were  quite  distinct 
from  the  executive  power,  England  and  Ireland 
5  might  as  easily  have  two  legislatures  as  two  Chan- 
cellors and  two  Courts  of  King's  Bench.  But 
though,  in  books  written  by  theorists,  the  ex- 
ecutive power  and  the  legislative  power  may  be 
treated    as    things    quite    distinct,    every    man    ac- 

loquainted  with  the  real  working  of  our  constitution 
knows  that  the  two  powers  are  most  closely 
connected,  nay  intermingled  with  each  other. 
During  several  generations,  the  whole  administra- 
tion of  affairs  has  been  conducted  in  conformity 

15  with  the  sense  of  parliament.  About  every  exercise 
of  the  prerogative  of  the  Crown  it  is  the  privilege  of 
parliament  to  oft"er  advice;  and  that  advice  no  wise 
king  will  ever  slight.  It  is  the  prerogative  of  the 
sovereign  to  choose  his  own  servants ;  but  it  is  im- 

20  possible  for  him  to  maintain  them  in  office  unless 
parliament  will  support  them.  It  is  the  preroga- 
tive of  the  sovereign  to  treat  with  other  princes ;  but 
it  is  impossible  for  him  to  persist  in  any  scheme  of 
foreign  policy  which  is  disagreeable  to  parliament. 

25  It  is  the  prerogative  of  the  sovereign  to  make  war ; 
but  he  cannot  raise  a  battalion  or  man  a  frigate 
without  the  help  of  parliament.  The  repealers  may 
therefore  be  refuted  out  of  their  own  mouths. 
They  say  that  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  ought  to 

30  have  one  executive  power.  But  the  legislature  has 
a  most  important  share  of  the  executive  power. 
Therefore,  by  the  confession  of  the  repealers  them- 
selves. Great  Britain  and  Ireland  ought  to  have  one 
legislature. 


266  ARGUMENTATION. 

Consider  for  one  moment  in  what  a  situation  the 
executive  government  will  be  placed  if  you  have  two 
independent  legislatures,  and  if  those  legislatures 
should  differ,  as  all  bodies  which  are  independent  of 
each  other  will  sometimes  differ.  Suppose  the  case  5 
of  a  commercial  treaty  which  is  unpopular  in  Eng- 
land and  popular  in  Ireland.  The  Irish  parliament 
expresses  its  approbation  of  the  terms,  and  passes  a 
vote  of  thanks  to  the  negotiator.  We  at  Westmin- 
ster censure  the  terms  and  impeach  the  negotiator.  lo 
Or  we  are  to  have  two  foreign  offices,  one  in  Down- 
ing Street  and  one  in  Dublin  Castle?  Is  his  Maj- 
esty to  send  to  every  court  in  Christendom  two 
diplomatic  agents,  to  thwart  each  other  and 
to  be  spies  upon  each  other?  It  is  incon-  15 
ceivable,  but  that,  in  a  very  few  years,  disputes 
such  as  can  be  terminated  only  by  arms  must  arise 
between  the  communities  so  absurdly  united  and 
so  absurdly  disunited.  All  history  confirms  this  rea- 
soning. Superficial  observers  have  fancied  that  20 
they  have  found  cases  on  the  other  side.  But  as 
soon  as  you  examine  those  cases  you  will  see  either 
that  they  bear  no  analogy  to  the  case  with  which 
we  have  to  deal,  or  that  they  corroborate  my  argu- 
ment. The  case  of  Ireland  herself  has  been  cited.  25 
Ireland,  it  has  been  said,  had  an  independent  legisla- 
ture from  1782  to  1800:  during  eighteen  years  there 
were  two  co-equal  parliaments  under  one  Crown ; 
and  yet  there  was  no  collision.  Sir,  the  reason  that 
there  was  not  perpetual  collision  was,  as  we  all  30 
know,  that  the  Irish  parliament,  though  nominally 
independent,  was  generally  kept  in  real  dependence 
by  means  of  the  foulest  corruption  that  ever  ex- 
isted in  any  assembly.     But  it  is  not  true  that  there 


REPEAL  OF  THE  UNION  WITH  IRELAND.      267 

was  no  collision.  Before  the  Irish  legislature  had 
been  six  years  independent,  a  collision  did  take 
place,  a  collision  such  as  might  well  have  produced 
a  civil  war.  In  the  year  1788,  George  III.  was  in- 
5  capacitated  by  illness  from  discharging  his  regal 
functions.  According  to  the  constitution,  the  duty 
of  making  provision  for  the  discharge  of  those  func- 
tions devolved  on  the  parliaments  of  Great  Britain 
and   Ireland.     Between  the   government  of   Great 

!•  Britain  and  the  government  of  Ireland  there  was, 
during  the  interregnum,  no  connection  whatever. 
The  sovereign  who  was  the  common  head  of  both 
governments  had  virtually  ceased  to  exist:  and  the 
two  legislatures  were  no  more  to  each  other  than 

15  this  House  and  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  at  Paris. 
What  followed?  The  parliament  of  Great  Britain 
resolved  to  offer  the  regency  to  the  Prince  of  Wales 
under  many  important  restrictions.  The  parliament 
of  Ireland  made  him  an  offer  of  the  regency  with- 

^  jut  any  restrictions  whatever.  By  the  same  right 
by  which  the  Irish  Lords  and  Commons  made  that 
offer,  they  might,  if  Mr.  Pitt's  doctrine  be  the  con- 
stitutional doctrine,  as  I  believe  it  to  be,  have  made 
the  Duke  of  York  or  the  Duke  of  Leinster  regent. 

25  To  this  regent  they  might  have  given  all  the  pre- 
rogatives of  the  king.  Suppose, — no  extravagant 
supposition, — that  George  III.  had  not  recovered, 
that  the  rest  of  his  long  life  had  been  passed  in  se- 
clusion, Great  Britain  and  Ireland  would  then  have 

3«  been,  during  thirty-two  years,  as  completely  sepa- 
rated as  Great  Britain  and  Spain.  There  would 
have  been  nothing  in  common  between  the  govern- 
ments, neither  executive  power  nor  legislative 
power.     It  is  plain,  therefore,  that  a  total  separa- 


268  ARGUMENTATION. 

tion  between  the  two  islands  might,  in  the  natural 
course  of  things,  and  without  the  smallest  violation 
of  the  constitution  on  either  side,  be  the  effect  of  the 
arrangement  recommended  by  the  honorable  and 
learned  gentleman,  who  solemnly  declares  that  he  5 
should  consider  such  a  separation  as  the  greatest  of 
calamities. 

No  doubt.  Sir,  in  several  continental  kingdoms 
there  have  been  two  legislatures,  and  indeed  more 
than  two  legislatures,  under  the  same  Crown.  But  jo 
the  explanation  is  simple.  Those  legislatures  were 
of  no  real  weight  in  the  government.  Under  Louis 
XIV.  Brittany  had  its  States ;  Burgundy  had  its 
States;  and  yet  there  was  no  collision  between  the 
States  of  Brittany  and  the  States  of  Burgundy.  15 
But  why?  Because  neither  the  States  of  Brittany 
not  the  States  of  Burgundy  imposed  any  real  re- 
straint on  the  arbitrary  power  of  the  monarch.  So, 
in  the  dominions  of  the  House  of  Hapsburg,  there 
is  the  semblance  of  a  legislature  in  Hungary  and  the  20 
semblance  of  a  legislature  in  the  Tyrol :  but  all  the 
real  power  is  with  the  emperor.  I  do  not  say  that 
you  cannot  have  one  executive  power  and  two  mock 
parliaments,  two  parliaments  which  merely  trans- 
act parish  business,  two  parliaments  which  exercise  25 
no  more  influence  on  great  affairs  of  state  than  the 
vestry  of  St.  Pancras  or  the  vestry  of  Marylebone. 
What  I  do  say,  and  what  common  sense  teaches,  and 
what  all  history  teaches,  is  this,  that  you  cannot  have 
one  executive  power  and  two  real  parliaments,  two  30 
parliaments  possessing  such  powers  as  the  parlia- 
ment of  this  country  has  possessed  ever  since  the 
revolution,  two  parliaments  to  the  deliberate  sense 
of  which  the  sovereign  must  conform.     If  they  dif- 


REPEAL  OF  THE  UNION   WITH  IRELAND.      269 

fer,  how  can  he  conform  to  the  sense  of  both  ?     The 
thing  is  as  plain  as  a  proposition  in  Euclid. 

It  is  impossible  for  m.e  to  believe  that  considera- 
tions so  obvious  and  so  important  should  not  have 
5  occurred  to  the  honorable  and  learned  member  for 
Dublin.  Doubtless  they  have  occurred  to  him ;  and 
therefore  it  is  that  he  shrinks  from  arguing  the 
question  here.  Nay,  even  when  he  harangues  more 
credulous  assemblies  on  this  subject,  he  carefully 

10  avoids  precise  explanations;  and  the  hints  which 
sometimes  escape  him  are  not  easily  to  be  recon- 
ciled with  each  other.  On  one  occasion,  if  the 
newspapers  are  to  be  trusted,  he  declared  that  his 
object  was   to  establish  a   federal   union  between 

15  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  A  local  parliament,  it 
seems,  is  to  sit  at  Dublin,  and  to  send  deputies  to  an 
imperial  parliament  which  is  to  sit  at  Westminster. 
The  honorable  and  learned  gentleman  thinks,  I  sup- 
pose, that  in  this  way  he  evades  the  difficulties  which 

20 1  have  pointed  out.  But  he  deceives  himself.  If, 
indeed,  his  local  legislature  is  to  be  subject  to  his 
imperial  legislature,  if  his  local  legislature  is  to  be 
merely  what  the  Assembly  of  Antigua  or  Barbadoes 
is,  or  what  the  Irish  parliament  was  before  1782, 

25  the  danger  of  collision  is  no  doubt  removed :  but 
what,  on  the  honorable  and  learned  gentleman's  own 
principles,  would  Ireland  gain  by  such  an  arrange- 
ment? If,  on  the  other  hand,  his  local  legislature 
is  to  be  for  certain  purposes  independent,  you  have 

30  again  the  risk  of  collision.  Suppose  that  a  differ- 
ence of  opinion  should  arise  between  the  imperial 
parliament  and  the  Irish  parliament  as  to  the  limits 
of  their  powers,  who  is  to  decide  betvv^een  them  ?  A 
dispute  between  the  House  of  Commons  and  the 


1 7 o  ARGUMEN TA  TION. 

House  of  Lords  is  bad  enough.  Yet  in  that  case 
the  sovereign  can,  by  a  high  exercise  of  his  pre- 
rogative, produce  harmony.  He  can  send  us  back 
to  our  constituents ;  and,  if  that  expedient  fails,  he 
can  create  more  lords.  When,  in  1705,  the  dispute  s 
between  the  Houses  about  the  Aylesbury  men  ran 
high,  Queen  Anne  restored  concord  by  dismissing 
the  parliament.  Seven  years  later  she  put  an  end 
to  another  conflict  between  the  Houses  by  making 
twelve  peers  in  one  day.  But  who  is  to  arbitrate  10 
between  two  representative  bodies  chosen  by  differ- 
ent constituent  bodies?  Look  at  what  is  now  pass- 
ing in  America.  Of  all  federal  constitutions  that  of 
the  United  States  is  the  best.  It  was  framed  by  a 
convention  which  contained  many  wise  and  experi- 15 
enced  men,  and  over  which  Washington  presided. 
Yet  there  is  a  debatable  ground  on  the  frontier 
which  separates  the  functions  of  Congress  from 
those  of  the  state  legislatures.  A  dispute  as  to  the 
exact  boundary  has  lately  arisen.  Neither  party  20 
seems  disposed  to  yield:  and,  if  both  persist,  there 
can  be  no' umpire  but  the  sword. 

For  my  part,  Sir,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying 
that  I  should  very  greatly  prefer  the  total  separation 
which  the  honorable  and  learned  gentlemen  pro- 25 
fesses  to  consider  as  a  calamity,  to  the  partial  sepa- 
ration which  he  has  taught  his  countrymen  to  re- 
gard as  a  blessing.  If,  on  a  fair  trial,  it  be  found 
that  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  cannot  exist  happily 
together  as  parts  of  one  empire,  in  God's  name  let  30 
them  separate.  I  wish  to  see  them  joined  as  the 
limbs  of  a  well  formed  body  are  joined.  In  such  a 
body  the  members  assist  each  other:  they  are  nour- 
ished by  the  same  food :  if  one  member  suffer,  all 


REPEAL  OF  THE   UNION   WITH  IRELAND.      271 

suffer  with  it:  if  one  member  rejoice,  all  rejoice  with 
it.  But  I  do  not  wish  to  see  the  countries  united, 
like  those  wretched  twins  from  Siam,  who  were  ex- 
hibited here  a  little  while  ago,  by  an  unnatural  liga- 
5  ment  which  made  each  the  constant  plague  of  the 
other,  always  in  each  other's  way,  more  helpless 
than  others  because  they  had  twice  as  many  hands, 
slower  than  others  because  they  had  twice  as  many 
legs,  sympathizing  with  each  other  only  in  evil,  not 

10  feeling  each  other's  pleasures,  not  supported  by  each 
other's  aliment,  but  tormented  by  each  other's  in- 
firmities, and  certain  lo  perish  miserably  by  each 
other's  dissolution. 

Ireland  has  undoubtedly  just  causes  of  complaint. 

15  We  heard  those  causes  recapitulated  last  night  by 
the  honorable  and  learned  member,  who  tells  us  that 
he  represents  not  Dublin  alone,  but  Ireland,  and 
that  he  stands  between  his  country  and  civil  war. 
I  do  not  deny  that  most  of  the  grievances  which  he 

20  recounted  exist,  that  they  are  serious,  and  that  they 
ought  to  be  remedied  as  far  as  it  is  in  the  power  of 
legislation  to  remedy  them.  What  I  do  deny  is  that 
they  were  caused  by  the  Union,  and  that  the  Repeal 
of  the  Union  would  remove  them.     I  listened  atten- 

25  tively  while  the  honorable  and  learned  gentleman 
went  through  that  long  and  melancholy  list:  and  I 
am  confident  that  he  did  not  mention  a  single  evil 
which  was  not  a  subject  of  bitter  complaint  while 
Ireland  had  a  domestic  parliament.     Is  it  fair,  is  it 

30  reasonable  in  the  honorable  gentleman  to  impute  to 
the  Union  evils  which,  as  he  knows  better  than  any 
other  man  in  the  house,  existed  long  before  the 
Union?  Post  hoc:  ergo,  propter  hoc  is  not  always 
sound  reasoning.     But  ante  hoc:  ergo,  non  propter 


2  72  ARG  UMENTA  TION. 

hoc  is  unanswerable.  The  old  rustic  who  told  Sir 
Thomas  More  that  Tenterden  steeple  was  the  cause 
of  Godwin  sands  reasoned  much  better  than  the 
honorable  and  learned  gentleman.  For  it  was  not 
till  after  Tenterden  steeple  was  built  that  the  fright-  5 
ful  wrecks  on  the  Godwin  sands  were  heard  of. 
But  the  honorable  and  learned  gentleman  would 
make  Godwin  sands  the  cause  of  Tenterden  steeple. 
Some  of  the  Irish  grievances  which  he  ascribes  to 
the  Union  are  not  only  older  than  the  Union,  but  10 
are  not  peculiarly  Irish.  They  are  common  to  Eng- 
land, Scotland,  and  Ireland ;  and  it  was  in  order  to 
get  rid  of  them  that  we,  for  the  common  benefit  of 
England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  passed  the  Reform 
Bill  last  year.  Other  grievances  which  the  honor- 15 
able  and  learned  gentleman  mentioned  are  doubt- 
less local:  but  is  there  to  be  a  local  legislature 
wherever  there  is  a  local  grievance?  Wales  has 
had  local  grievances.  We  all  remember  the  com- 
plaints which  were  made  a  few  years  ago  about  the  20 
Welsh  judicial  system ;  but  did  anybody  therefore 
propose  that  Wales  should  have  a  distinct  parlia- 
ment? Cornwall  has  some  local  grievances;  but 
does  anybody  propose  that  Cornwall  shall  have  its 
own  House  of  Lords  and  its  own  House  of  Com-  25 
mons?  Leeds  has  local  grievances.  The  majority 
of  my  constituents  distrust  and  dislike  the  munici- 
pal government  to  which  they  are  subject:  they 
therefore  call  loudly  on  us  for  corporation  reform: 
but  they  do  not  ask  us  for  a  separate  legislature.  3c 
Of  this  I  am  quite  sure,  that  every  argument  Avhich 
has  been  urged  for  the  purpose  of  showing  that 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland  ought  to  have  two  dis- 
tinct parliaments  may  be  urged  with  far  greater 


REPEAL  OF  THE  UNION  WITH  IRELAND.      273 

force  for  the  purpose  of  showing  that  the  north  of 
Ireland  and  the  south  of  Ireland  ought  to  have  two 
distinct  parliaments.  The  House  of  Commons  of 
the  United  Kingdom,  it  has  been  said,  is  chiefly 
5  elected  by  Protestants,  and  therefore  cannot  be 
trusted  to  legislate  for  Catholic  Ireland.  If  this  be 
so,  how  can  an  Irish  House  of  Commons,  chiefly 
elected  by  Catholics,  be  trusted  to  legislate  for 
Protestant  Ulster?     It  is  perfectly  notorious  that 

10  theological  antipathies  are  stronger  in  Ireland  than 
here.  I  appeal  to  the  honorable  and  learned  gentle- 
man himself.  He  has  often  declared  that  it  is  im- 
possible for  a  Roman  Catholic,  whether  prosecutor 
or  culprit,  to  obtain  justice  from  a  jury  of  Orange- 

15  men.  It  is  indeed  certain  that,  in  blood,  religion, 
language,  habits,  character,  the  population  of  some 
of  the  northern  counties  of  Ireland  has  much  more 
in  common  with  the  population  of  England  and 
Scotland  than  with  the  population  of  Munster  and 

20  Connaught.  I  defy  the  honorable  and  learned 
member,  therefore,  to  find  a  reason  for  having  a 
parliament  at  Dublin  which  will  not  be  just  as  good 
a  reason  for  having  another  parliament  at  Lon- 
donderry. 

25  Sir,  in  showing,  as  I  think  I  have  shown,  the  ab- 
surdity of  this  cry  for  Repeal,  I  have  in  a  great 
measure  vindicated  myself  from  the  charge  of  in- 
consistency which  has  been  brought  against  me  by 
my  honorable  friend  the  member  for  Lincoln.     It 

30  is  very  easy  to  bring  a  volume  of  Hansard  to  the 
House,  to  read  a  few  sentences  of  a  speech  made  in 
very  dififerent  circumstances,  and  to  say,  "  Last  year 
you  were  for  pacifying  England  by  concession :  this 
year  you  are   for  pacifying  Ireland  by  coercion. 


274  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

How  can  you  vindicate  your  consistency  ?  "  Surely 
my  honorable  friend  cannot  but  know  that  nothing 
is  easier  than  to  write  a  theme  for  severity,  for  clem- 
ency, for  order,  for  liberty,  for  a  contemplative  life, 
for  an  active  life,  and  so  on.  It  was  a  common  ex-  5 
ercise  in  the  ancient  schools  of  rhetoric  to  take  an 
abstract  question,  and  to  harangue  first  on  one  side 
and  then  on  the  other.  The  question,  Ought  popu- 
lar discontents  to  be  quieted  by  concession  or  co- 
ercion? would  have  been  a  very  good  subject  for  10 
oratory  of  this  kind.  There  is  no  lack  of  common- 
places on  either  side.  But  when  we  come  to  the  real 
business  of  life,  the  value  of  these  commonplaces 
depends  entirely  on  the  particular  circumstances  of 
the  case  which  we  are  discussing.  Nothing  is  easier  15 
than  to  write  a  treatise  proving  that  it  is  lawful  to 
resist  extreme  tyranny.  Nothing  is  easier  than  to 
write  a  treatise  setting  forth  the  wickedness  of  wan- 
tonly bringing  on  a  great  society  the  miseries  in- 
separable from  revolution,  the  bloodshed,  the  spolia-  20 
tion,  the  anarchy.  Both  treatises  may  contain  much 
that  is  true;  but  neither  will  enable  us  to  decide 
whether  a  particular  insurrection  is  or  is  not  justi- 
fiable without  a  close  examination  of  the  facts. 
There  is  surely  no  inconsistency  in  speaking  with  re-  25 
spect  of  the  memory  of  Lord  Russell  and  with  hor- 
ror of  the  crime  of  Thistlewood ;  and,  in  my  opin- 
ion, the  conduct  of  Russell  and  the  conduct  of  This- 
tlewood did  not  differ  more  widely  than  the  cry  for 
Parliamentary  Reform  and  the  cry  for  the  Repeal 
of  the  Union.  The  Reform  Bill  I  believe  to  be  a  3° 
blessing  to  the  nation.  Repeal  I  know  to  be  a  mere 
delusion.  I  know  it  to  be  impracticable  and  I  know 
that,  if  it  were  practicable,  it  would  be  pernicious 


REPEAL  OF  THE  UNION  WITH  IRELAND.      275 

to  every  part  of  the  empire,  and  utterly  ruinous  to 
Ireland.  Is  it  not  then  absurd  to  say  that,  because 
I  wished  last  year  to  quiet  the  English  people  by 
giving  them  that  which  was  beneficial  to  them,  I  am 
5  therefore  bound  in  consistency  to  quiet  the  Irish 
people  this  year  by  giving  them  that  which  will  be 
fatal  to  them?  I  utterly  deny,  too,  that,  in  consent- 
ing to  arm  the  government  with  extraordinary  pow- 
ers for  the  purpose  of  repressing  disturbances  in 

10  Ireland,  I  am  guilty  of  the  smallest  inconsistency. 
On  what  occasion  did  I  ever  refuse  to  support  any 
government  in  repressing  disturbances?  It  is  per- 
fectly true  that,  in  the  debates  on  the  Reform  Bill, 
I  imputed  the  turiiults  and  outrages  of  1830  to  mis- 

15  rule.  But  did  I  ever  say  that  those  tumults  and 
outrages  ought  to  be  tolerated  ?  I  did  attribute  the 
Kentish  riots,  the  Hampshire  riots,  the  burning  of 
cornstacks,  the  destruction  of  threshing  machines, 
to  the  obstinacy  with  which  the  Ministers  of  the 

20  Crown  had  refused  to  listen  to  the  demands  of  the 
people.  But  did  I  ever  say  that  the  rioters  ought 
not  to  be  imprisoned,  that  the  incendiaries  ought 
not  to  be  hanged?  I  did  ascribe  the  disorders  of 
Nottingham  and  the  fearful  sacking  of  Bristol  to  the 

25  unwise  rejection  of  the  Reform  Bill  by  the  Lords. 
But  did  I  ever  say  that  such  excesses  as  were  com- 
mitted at  Nottingham  and  Bristol  ought  not  to  be 
put  down,  if  necessary,  by  the  sword? 

I  would  act  towards  Ireland  on  the  same  princi- 

30  pies  on  which  I  acted  towards  England.  In  Ireland, 
as  in  England,  I  would  remove  every  just  cause  of 
complaint;  and  in  Ireland  as  in  England  I  would 
support  the  government  in  preserving  the  public 
peace.     What   is   there   inconsistent   in   this?     My 


276  ARC UMEN TA  TION. 

honorable  friend  seems  to  think  that  no  person  who 
beHeves  that  disturbances  have  been  caused  by  mal- 
administration can  consistently  lend  his  help  to  put 
down  these  disturbances.  If  that  be  so,  the  hon- 
orable and  learned  member  for  Dublin  is  quite  as  :: 
inconsistent  as  I  am ;  indeed,  much  more  so ;  for  he 
thinks  very  much  worse  of  the  government  than  I 
do ;  and  yet  he  declares  himself  willing  to  assist  the 
government  in  quelling  the  tumults  which,  as  he 
assures  us,  its  own  misconduct  is  likely  to  produce.  10 
He  told  us  yesterday  that  our  harsh  policy  might 
perhaps  goad  the  unthinking  populace  of  Ireland 
into  insurrection ;  he  should,  while  execrating  us  as 
the  authors  of  all  the  mischief,  be  found  in  our 
ranks,  and  should  be  ready  to  support  us  in  every-  15 
thing  that  might  be  necessary  for  the  restoration  of 
order.  As  to  this  part  of  the  subject,  there  is  no 
difference  in  principle  between  the  honorable  and 
learned  gentleman  and  myself.  In  his  opinion,  it 
is  probable  that  a  time  may  soon  come  when  vigor-  20 
ous  coercion  may  be  necessary,  and  when  it  may  be 
the  duty  of  every  friend  to  co-operate  in  the  work 
of  coercion.  In  m.y  opinion,  that  time  has  already 
come.  The  grievances  of  Ireland  are  doubtless 
great,  so  great  that  I  never  would  have  connected  25 
myself  with  a  government  which  I  did  not  believe 
to  be  intent  on  redressing  those  grievances.  But 
am  I,  because  the  grievances  of  Ireland  are  great, 
and  ought  to  be  redressed,  to  abstain  from  redress- 
ing the  worst  grievance  of  all  ?  Am  I  to  look  on  30 
quietly  while  the  laws  are  insulted  by  a  furious  rab- 
ble, while  houses  are  plundered  and  burned,  while 
my  peaceable  fellow-subjects  are  butchered?  The 
distribution  of  Church  property,  you  tell  us,  is  un- 


REPEAL  OF  THE  UNION  WITH  IRELAND.      277 

just.  Perhaps  I  agree  with  you.  But  what  then? 
To  what  purpose  is  it  to  talk  about  the  distribution 
of  Church  property,  while  no  property  is  secure? 
Then  you  try  to  deter  us  from  putting  down  rob- 
5  bery,  arson,  and  murder,  by  telHng  us  that  if  we  re- 
sort to  coercion  we  shall  raise  a  civil  war.  We  are 
past  that  fear.  Recollect  that,  in  one  county  alone, 
there  have  been  within  a  few  weeks  sixty  murders  or 
assaults  with  intent  to  murder,  and  six  hundred  bur- 

10  glaries.  Since  we  parted  last  summer,  the  slaughter 
in  Ireland  has  exceeded  the  slaughter  of  a  pitched 
battle :  the  destruction  of  property  has  been  as  great 
as  would  have  been  caused  by  the  storming  of  three 
or  four  towns.     Civil  war,  indeed !     I  would  rather 

15  live  in  the  midst  of  any  civil  war  that  we  have  had  in 
England  during  the  last  two  hundred  years  than  in| 
some  parts  of  Ireland  at  the  present  moment. 
Rather  would  I  have  lived  on  the  line  of 
march    of    the    Pretender's    army    in    1745    than 

20  in  Tipperary  now.  It  is  idle  to  threaten  us 
with  civil  war;  for  we  have  it  already;  and 
it  is  because  we  are  resolved  to  put  an  end 
to  it  that  we  are  called  base,  and  brutal,  and 
bloody.     Such  are  the  epithets  which  the  honorable 

25  and  learned  member  for  Dublin  thinks  it  becoming 
to  pour  forth  against  the  party  to  which  he  owes 
every  political  privilege  that  he  enjoys.  He  need 
not  fear  that  any  member  of  that  party  will  be  pro- 
voked into  a  conflict  of  scurrility.     Use  makes  even 

30  sensitive  minds  callous  to  invective :  and,  copious  as 
his  vocabulary  is,  he  will  not  easily  find  in  it  any 
foul  name  which  has  not  been  many  times  applied  to 
those  who  sit  around  me,  on  account  of  the  zeal  and 
steadiness  with  which  they  supported  the  emancipa- 


278  AUG  UMEN  TA  TION. 

tion  of  the  Roman  Catholics.  His  reproaches  are 
not  more  stinging  than  the  reproaches  which,  in 
times  not  very  remote,  we  endured  unflinchingly 
in  his  cause.  I  can  assure  him  that  men  who  faced 
the  cry  of  No  Popery  are  not  likely  to  be  scared  by  5 
the  cry  of  Repeal.  The  time  will  come  when  his- 
tory will  do  justice  to  the  Whigs  of  England,  and 
will  faithfully  relate  how  much  they  did  and  suf- 
fered for  Ireland ;  how,  for  the  sake  of  Ireland,  they 
quitted  office  in  1807;  bow,  for  the  sake  of  Ireland,  10 
they  remained  out  of  office  more  than  twenty  years, 
braving  the  frowns  of  the  Court,  braving  the  hisses 
of  the  multitude,  renouncing  power,  and  patronage, 
and  salaries,  and  peerages,  and  garters,  and  yet  not 
obtaining  in  return  even  a  little  fleeting  popularity.  15 
I  see  on  the  benches  near  me  men  who  might,  by 
uttering  one  word  against  Catholic  emancipation, 
nay,  by  merely  abstaining  from  uttering  a  word  in 
favor  of  Catholic  emancipation,  have  been  returned 
to  this  house  without  difficulty  or  expense,  and  who,  20 
rather  than  wrong  their  Irish  fellow-subjects,  were 
content  to  relinquish  all  the  objects  of  their  honor- 
able ambition,  and  to  retire  into  private  life  with 
conscience  and  fame  untarnished.  As  to  one  emi- 
nent person,  who  seems  to  be  regarded  with  especial  25 
malevolence  by  those  who  ought  never  to  mention 
his  name  without  reverence  and  gratitude,  I  will  say 
only  this :  that  the  loudest  clamor  which  the  hon- 
orable and  learned  gentleman  can  excite  against 
Lord  Grey  will  be  trifling  when  compared  with  the  30 
clamour  which  Lord  Grey  withstood  in  order  to 
place  the  honorable  and  learned  gentleman  where  he 
now  sits.  Though  a  young  member  of  the  Whig 
party,  I  will  venture  to  speak  in  the  name  of  the 


REPEAL  OF  THE   UNION  WITH  IRELAND.      279 

whole  body.  T  tell  the  honorable  and  learned  gen- 
tleman, that  the  same  spirit  which  sustained  us  in  a 
just  contest  for  him  will  sustain  us  in  an  equally 
just  contest  against  him.  Calumny,  abuse,  royal 
5  displeasure,  popular  fury,  exclusion  from  office,  ex- 
clusion from  parliament,  we  were  ready  to  endure 
them  all,  rather  than  that  he  should  be  less  than  a 
British  subject.  We  never  will  suffer  him  to  be 
more. 

10  I  stand  here.  Sir,  for  the  first  time  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  a  new  constituent  body,  one  of  the  larg- 
est, most  prosperous,  and  most  enlightened  towns 
in  the  kingdom.  The  electors  of  Leeds,  believing 
that  at  this  time  the  service  of  the  people  is  not  in- 

15  compatible  with  the  service  of  the  Crown,  have  sent 
me  to  this  House  charged,  in  the  language  of  his 
Majesty's  writ,  to  do  and  consent,  in  their  name  and 
in  their  behalf,  to  such  things  as  shall  be  proposed 
in  the  great  Council  of  the  nation.     In  the  name, 

20  then,  and  on  the  behalf  of  my  constituents,  I  give 
my  full  assent  to  that  part  of  the  Address  wherein 
the  House  declares  its  resolution  to  maintain  invio- 
late, by  the  help  of  God,  the  connection  between 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  and  to  intrust  to  the 

25  sovereign  such  powers  as  shall  be  necessary  to  se- 
cure property,  to  restore  order,  and  to  preserve  the 
integrity  of  the  empire. 

Notes. — This  deliberative '   speech   of  the  young  Ma- 

caulay  against  O'Connell  is  noticeable  for  its  brilliant  logi- 

00  cal  method,  and  for  its  skillful  manner  of  refutation.     It  is 

open  to  the  criticism  of  dealing  too  much  in  generalities, 

*  Deliberative,  /.  e.,  delivered  before  an  assembly  whose 
business  is  deliberation. 


-8o  argumentation: 

but  it  was  in  criticism  of  a  plan  which  dealt  in  generalities.* 
The  speaker  begins  by  pointing  out  that  two  of  his  oppo- 
nents do  notagree  in  theirnotion  of  what  ought  to  be  done 
for  Ireland;  they  use  the  word  "redress"  in  opposite 
senses.  He  then  skillfully  utilizes  against  his  chief  adver-  5 
sary  the  fact  of  his  silence  on  the  King's  Speech,  which 
invites  discussion  of  the  Repeal  question.  Macaulay  infers 
that  O'Connell  dare  not  speak  to  it  because  O'Connell 
sees  the  illogical  nature  of  the  Repeal  he  desires. 
O'Connell  is  not  consistent,  like  Wolfe  Tone,  who  wants  an  10 
Irish  Republic.  O'Connell  wants  two  legislatures  with  one 
executive.  But  a  house  divided  against  itself  cannot  stand. 
If  strong  and  real,  the  legislatures  will  disagree,  and  the 
executive  be  unable  to  represent  both.  If  not  strong  and 
real,  if  one  is  a  slave  to  the  other  or  both  to  the  crown,  then  15 
they  might  better  not  exist.  History  shows  that  the  gov- 
ernment will  run  upon  one  of  the  horns  of  this  dilemma. 
In  appealing  to  various  historical  parallels,  Macaulay  is 
using  the  argument  from  analogy.  This  is  sometimes 
very  effective,  but  often  treacherous  because  of  the  likeli-  20 
hood  of  overlooking  disturbing  elements.  He  uses  the 
same  kind  of  argument  in  likening  O'Connell's  proposed 
Union  to  the  Siamese  twins,  "  sympathizing  with  each 
other  only  in  evil,  not  feeling  each  other's  pleasures." 
Having  apparently  finished  his  criticism  of  O'Connell's  25 
plan,  Macaulay  explains  his  own,  which  is  that  of  oppor- 

'  The  long  fight  for  home-rule  in  Ireland  has  been  so 
complicated  because  neither  side  has  succeeded  in  con- 
vincing the  other  of  the  applicability  of  any  general  prin- 
ciple to  the  situation.  It  may  be  said,  however,  that  the  30 
Irish  have  often  injured  their  own  cause  by  insistence  on 
some  sweeping  theory  the  weak  points  of  which  could 
easily  be  pointed  out  by  a  speech  of  this  sort.  It  is  since 
the  day  of  Macaulay  that  both  parties  to  the  dispute  have 
descended  to  the  consideration  of  practical  ameliorative  35 
measures,  a  ground  on  which  the  Englishman  is  more  sus- 
ceptible to  appeal  than  on  any  philosopl;ical  ground. 


DEFENSE  OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  281 

tunism.  He  believes  that  every  just  cause  of  complaint 
can  be  removed  one  by  one,  under  the  provisions  of  the 
Reform  bill.  He  admits  the  grievances,  and  here  he 
returns  to  O'Connell's  plan  in  order  to  apply  the  reductio 
5  ad  absiirdum  argument.  The  grievances  are  local,  and 
if  it  were  true  that  tV.ey  were  removable  only  by  the 
creation  of  an  Irish  parliament,  then,  so  great  are  the 
differences  between  Protestant  Ireland  and  Catholic  Ire- 
land, there  ought  to  be  two  Irish  parliaments,  one  in  the 

lo  north,  one  in  the  south.  Next  he  defends  himself  from 
the  charge  of  inconsistency  in  voting  last  year  for  the 
redress  of  grievances  and  this  for  the  suppression  of 
riots.  He  closes  with  an  attempt  to  persuade  parliament 
of    his    own   party's    sincerity,   courage,  and  patriotism, 

15  which  he  contrasts  with  O'Connell's  ingratitude.  There 
is  no  logical  contrast,  but  a  favorable  impression  of  Whig 
loyalty  is  produced. 


54.— Defense  of  Patrick  jflnne^, 

CHARGED    WITH    HIGH    TREASON. 

JOHN  PHILPOT  CURRAN. 

NoTE^. — On  the  31st  of  May,  1797,  Patrick  Fin- 
ney was  arrested  at  Tuite's  public  house,  in  Thomas 

»o  Street.  He  was  indicted  for  High  Treason,  at  the 
Commission  held  in  Dublin,  in  July,  1797;  and  on 
Tuesday,  the  i6th  of  January,  1798,  was  brought  to 
trial.  The  indictment  was  in  substance  as  fol- 
lows : — 

25  The  first  count  of  the  indictment  charged — "  That 
Patrick  Finney,  yeoman,  on  the  30th  day  of  April, 

iThis  note,  by  Mr.  Jas.  A.  L.  Whittier,  is  reprinted  by 
permission  of  Messrs.  Callaghan  &  Co.,  from  their  one- 
volume  edition  of  Curran. 


^82  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

in  the  37th  year  of  the  King,  and  divers  other  days, 
at  the  city  of  Dubhn,  being  a  false  traitor,  did  com- 
pass and  imagine  the  death  of  our  said  Lord  the 
King,  and  did  traitorously  and  feloniously  intend 
our  said  Lord  the  King  to  kill,  murder,  and  put  to  5 
death." 

The  overt  acts  laid  were  as  follows : — "  i.  Adher- 
ing to  the  persons  exercising  the  powers  of  govern- 
ment in  France,  in  case  they  should  invade,  or  cause 
to  be  invaded  this  kingdom  of  Ireland,  they  being  10 
enemies  to  the  King,  and  at  war.  2.  That  the  con- 
spirators aforesaid  did  meet,  &c.,  confer,  consult, 
and  deliberate,  about  adhering  to  the  persons  ex- 
ercising the  powers  of  government  in  France.  3. 
Adhering  to  the  persons  exercising  the  powers  of  15 
government  in  France.  4.  Conspiring  that  one  or 
more  persons  should  be  sent  into  France,  to  excite 
an  invasion  of  Ireland.  5.  Conspiring  that  one  or 
more  persons  should  be  sent  into  France,  to  excite 
an  invasion  of  this  kingdom,  and  to  make  war  20 
therein  and  for  that  purpose  did  ask,  levy,  and  re- 
ceive, &c.,  from  other  traitors,  money,  to  wit,  from 
each  £20,  to  defray  the  expenses  of  the  persons  to  be 
sent.  6.  That  conspiring,  &c.,  they  did  send  into 
France  four  persons  unknown,  to  excite  the  persons  25 
exercising  the  powers  of  government  in  France  to 
invade  this  kingdom,  and  make  war  therein.  7. 
Conspiring  to  send,  and  sending,  four  persons  into 
France,  to  persuade  invasion,  and  to  aid  them  in  in- 
vading and  raising,  and  making  war ;  and  Finney,  30 
then  and  there,  demanding  and  receiving  money, 
viz.  £20  to  defray  the  charges  of  said  persons.  8. 
That  said  Patrick  Finney  became  a  United  Irishman 
for  the  purpose  of  assisting  the  persons  exercising 


DEFENSE    OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  283 

the  powers  of  government  in  France,  and  being  met 
to  the  number  of  forty-eight  other  traitors,  did  di- 
vide into  four  spHts,  each  of  which  contained  twelve 
traitors,  and  each  spHt  did  then  choose  one  to  be  sec- 
5  retary,  to  consult  on  behalf  thereof  with  other  splits, 
under  the  denomination  of  baronial  meetings,  for 
the  purpose  of  adhering  and  making  war,  in  case  of 
an  invasion  of  Ireland  from  France,  and  then  and 
there  conspiring  an  attack  upon  the  Castle  of  Dub- 

lolin,  &c.,  and  to  deprive  his  Majesty  of  the  stores  and 
ammunition  therein;  and  said  Finney,  to  facilitate 
such  attack,  did  advise  and  commend  other  traitors 
to  view  White's  Court,  &c.,  and  give  their  opinion 
to  their  several  splits,  so  that  their  secretaries  might 

15  report  the  same  to  their  baronial  meetings.  9.  Ad- 
hering to  the  persons  exercising  the  powers  of  gov- 
ernment in  France,  &c.,  and  with  forty-eight  other 
conspirators,  divided  into  four  splits,  each  contain- 
ing twelve,  each  split  choosing  a  secretary  to  con- 

20  fer  for  the  purpose  of  adhering  to  the  enemy  in  case 
of  invasion,  and  confederating  and  agreeing  that  a 
violent  attack  should  be  made  on  the  ordnance 
stores,  &c.  10.  Consulting,  &c.,  to  procure  an  in- 
vasion.    II.  Consulting  to  raise  insurrection,  rebel- 

25  lion,  and  war,  in  case  of  invasion  of  Ireland  or 
Great  Britain,  from  France.  12.  Conspiring  to  as- 
sist the  persons  exercising  the  powers  of  govern- 
ment in  France,  in  case  of  their  invading  this  realm 
with  ships  and  arms." 

30  There  was  a  second  count,  for  "  adhering  to  the 
King's  enemies  within  the  realm ;  "  and  in  support 
of  this  count,  the  overt  acts  laid  were  exactly  the 
same  as  those  above  recited. 

The  Attorney-General  (Wolfe)  stated  the  case, 


2  84  AUG  UMEN  TA  TION. 

describing  the  United  Irish  organization,  and  al- 
leging their  communication  with  France.  He  in- 
troduced the  charge  against  the  prisoner  and  the 
chief  witness — the  eminent  informer,  Jemmy 
O'Brien,  in  these  words : —  5 

"  A  man  of  the  name  of  James  O'Brien,  upon 
the  25th  of  April,  1797,  was  passing  through 
Thomas  Street,  in  this  city ;  he  met  a  man  who  was 
his  acquaintance,  named  Hyland,  standing  at  the 
door  of  one  Blake,  who  kept  a  public  house.  The  10 
prisoner  at  the  bar,  then,  as  I  believe,  a  stranger  to 
O'Brien,  was  standing  at  the  door;  Hyland  asked 
O'Brien  was  he  up? — which  is,  I  presume,  a  tech- 
nical expression  to  signify  that  a  man  is  a  member 
of  the  society.  They  tried  O'Brien  by  the  signs,  15 
whether  he  was,  or  not.  They  told  him  that  no 
man's  life  was  safe  if  he  was  not  up;  and,  particu- 
larly the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  told  O'Brien  his  life 
would  not  be  safe,  if  he  were  not  up;  they  desired 
O'Brien  to  go  into  the  house,  in  a  room  of  which  20 
eight  people  were  sitting.  There,  after  some  dis- 
course, O'Brien  was  sworn  to  secrecy,  and  after- 
wards he  was  sworn  to  that  oath  which  is  called  the 
oath  of  the  United  Irishmen.  They  talked  much  of 
their  strength — of  the  number  of  men  and  arms  pro-  25 
vided  in  various  parts  of  the  kingdom,  so  great  as  to 
render  the  attainment  of  their  object  certain ;  and 
after  much  other  discourse,  which  it  is  unnecessary 
to  state,  they  adjourned  their  meeting  to  the  house 
of  one  Coghran,  in  Newmarket  on  the  Coombe,  to  30 
be  held  the  next  Sunday,  the  30th  of  April ;  they 
agreed  that  the  password  to  gain  admittance  at 
Coghran's  should  be  '  Mr.  Green.'  And  it  ap- 
pears (for  the  trade  is  attended  with  some  profit) 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  285 

that  O'Brien  was  called  upon  to  pay,  and  did  pay 
the  prisoner  one  shilling  for  swearing  him. 

"  As  soon  as  O'Brien  left  the  house,  and  escaped 
the  danger  he  imagined  he  was  in,  he  went  to  Mr. 
5  Higgins,  a  magistrate  of  the  Queen's  county,  to 
whom  he  was  known,  then  in  Dublin,  and  disclosed 
to  him  what  had  passed.  Mr.  Higgins  told  O'Brien 
he  was  right  to  reveal  the  matter,  and  brought  him 
to  Lord  Portarlington,  who  brought  him  to  one  of 

10  the  committee  rooms  of  the  House  of  Lords,  where 
he  was  examined  by  one  of  the  Lord  Lieutenant's 
secretaries.  It  was  then  thought  expedient,  that  at- 
tention should  be  paid  to  this  society,  seeing  its  dan- 
gerous tendency,  in  order  to  counteract  the  designs 

15  entertained.  O'Brien,  conceiving  that  he  might  be 
in  some  danger  from  a  society  formed  upon  such 
principles,  was  advised  to  enlist  in  one  of  the  regi- 
ments of  dragoons  then  quartered  in  Dublin,  and  to 
attend  the  society,  to  learn  their  designs.     With  this 

20  view,  O'Brien  attended  at  Coghran's  house,  in  New- 
market, and  was  admitted  on  giving  the  password, 
'  Mr.  Green.'  He  there  found  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar,  with  forty  others  assembled ;  he  was  desired  to 
pay  sixpence  to  the  funds  of  the  society ;  he  said 

25  he  had  not  then  sixpence ;  they  told  him  he  was  to 
return  in  the  evening,  and  that  it  made  no  differ- 
ence, whether  he  then  paid,  or  brought  it  in  the 
evening.  Finney  informed  him  and  the  society  that 
the  money  collected  was  to  constitute  a  fund  for  the 

30  purpose  of  the  society ;  that  upon  that  day  there  was 
to  be  a  collection  from  the  United  societies  in  Dub- 
lin, sixpence  from  each  man,  and  that  there  was  to 
be  collected  that  evening  from  the  various  societies, 
io,cco  sixpences;  and  he  further  informed  them 


286  ARGUMENTATION. 

(for  he  was  an  active  man  at  that  meeting)  that 
there  was  to  be  a  great  funeral,  that  of  one  Ryan,  a 
mill-wright,  whose  corpse  lay  at  PimUco,  which  was 
to  be  attended  by  all  the  societies  in  Dublin;  that 
after  the  funeral,  that  particular  society  was  again  to  5 
assemble  at  the  same  place,  Coghran's." 

Various  other  meetings  were   stated  in  a  very 
moderate  speech,  and  O'Brien  swore  firmly  to  the 
facts.     Curran    cross-examined    the    man    calmly, 
and  tempted  him  into  confidential  insolence.     The  lo 
ruffian  described  his  career  as  the  hanger  on  of  an 
excise    ofiicer,    drinking    and    extorting    in    public 
houses ;  he  candidly  avowed  not  only  that  he  had 
practiced  coining,  but  he  identified  a  receipt   for 
coining,  which  he  had,  in  a  missionary  spirit,  given  ^5 
to  another  person ;  he  admitted  that,  when  told  that 
Mr.   Roberts   of  Stradbally   would   give   evidence 
against  his  character,  he  (having  a  sword  and  pistol 
in  his  hands,)  had  said  he  "  would  settle  him."     For 
this  he  made  a  trivial  explanation.     Peter  Clarke  20 
swore  that  on  the  31st  of  May,  Finney  gave  him  a 
copy  of  the  United  Irish  test,  and  Lord  Portarling- 
ton  swore  that  O'Brien  told  him  of  one  or  two  of 
the  early  meetings.     Curran  was  to  have  opened 
the  defense ;  but  a  principal  witness  being  absent,  a  25 
chaise  was  dispatched  for  him,  and  Mr.  MacNally 
set  to  speak  against  time.     The  court  had  then  to 
adjourn    for   twenty  minutes'  rest.     Then  Curran, 
after  examining  some  persons  of  the  middle  class  to 
prove  O'Brien's  infamy  of  character,  and  one  to  30 
Finney's  general  loyalty,  spoke  as  follows : — 

My  Lords,  and  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury.^     In  the 
'In  contrast  to  the  deliberative  speech,  the  speech  to  a 
judge  or  jury  is  called  &. forensic. 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  287 

early  part  of  this  trial,  I  thought  I  should  have  had 
to  address  you  on  the  most  important  occasion  pos- 
sible, on  this  side  of  the  grave,  a  man  laboring  for 
life,  on  the  casual  strength  of  an  exhausted,  and,  at 
5  best,  a  feeble  advocate.  But,  gentlemen,  do  not  im- 
agine that  I  rise  under  any  such  impressions;  do  not 
imagine  that  I  approach  you  sinking  under  the 
hopeless  difficulties  of  my  cause.  I  am  not  now  so- 
liciting your  indulgence  to  the  inadequacy  of  my 

10  powers,  or  artfully  enlisting  your  passions  at  the 
side  of  my  client.  No,  gentlemen ;  but  I  rise  with 
what  of  law,  of  conscience,  of  justice,  and  of  con- 
stitution, there  exists  within  this  realm.,  at  my  back, 
and,  standing  in  front  of  that  great  and  powerful 

15  alliance,  I  demand  a  verdict  of  acquittal  for  my  cli- 
ent !  ^  What  is  the  opposition  of  evidence  ?  It  is 
a  tissue  which  requires  no  strength  to  break 
through;  it  vanishes  at  the  touch,  and  is  sundered 
into  tatters. 

20  The  right  honorable  gentleman  who  stated  the 
case  in  the  first  stage  of  this  trial,  has  been  so  kind 
as  to  express  a  reliance,  that  the  counsel  for  the 
prisoner  would  address  the  jury  with  the  same  can- 
dor which  he  exemplified  on  the  part  of  the  Crown ; 

25  readily  and  confidently  do  I  accept  the  compliment, 
the  more  particularly,  as  in  my  cause  I  feel  no  temp- 
tation to  reject  it.     Life  can  present  no  situation 

'  The  Irish  impulsiveness  of  this  outburst,  preceded  by 
self-disparagement  and  a  bold  assumption  that  all  justice 
30  is  back  of  the  speaker,  was  calculated  to  impress  the  jury 
with  the  inherent  strength  of  Finney's  case.  A  more 
artistic  but  similar  beginning  is  that  of  Erskine's  speech 
for  Lord  George  Gordon,  delivered  almost  exactly  three 
years  later.     (See  Baker,  "  Specimens  of  Argumentation.") 


2 88  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

wherein  the  humble  powers  of  man  are  so  awfully 
and  so  divinely  excited,  as  in  defense  of  a  fellow- 
creature  placed  in  the  circumstances  of  my  client ; 
and  if  any  labors  can  peculiarly  attract  the  gracious 
and  approving  eye  of  Heaven,  it  is  when  God  looks  5 
down  on  a  human  being  assailed  by  human  turpi- 
tude, and  struggling  with  practices  against  which 
the  Deity  has  placed  his  special  canon,  when  he 
said  "  Thou  shalt  not  bear  false  witness  against  thy 
neighbor ;  thou  shalt  do  no  murder."  ^  10 

Gentlemen,  let  me  desire  you  again  and  again  to 
consider  all  the  circumstcmces  of  this  man's  case, 
abstracted  from  the  influence  of  prejudice  and 
habit ;  and  if  aught  of  passion  assumes  dominion 
over  you,  let  it  be  of  that  honest,  generous  nature  15 
that  good  men  must  feel  when  they  see  an  innocent 
man  depending  on  their  verdict  for  his  life;  to  this 
passion  I  feel  myself  insensibly  yielding ;  but  un- 
clouded, though  not  unwarmed,  I  shall,  I  trust,  pro- 
ceed in  my  great  duty.  20 

Wishing  to  state  my  client's  case  with  all  possible 
succinctness  which  the  nature  of  the  charge  admits, 
I  am  glad  my  learned  colleague  has  acquitted  him- 
self on  this  head  already  to  such  an  extent,  and  with 
such  ability,  that  anything  I  can  say  will  chance  to  25 
be  superfluous :  in  truth,  that  honesty  of  heart,  and 
integrity  of  principle,  for  which  all  must  give  him 
credit,  uniting  with  a  sound  judgment  and  sympa- 
thetic heart,  have  given  to  his  statement  all  the  ad- 
vantages it  could  have  derived  from  these  qualities.'  30 

'  This  paragraph  is  to  impress  the  jury  with  a  sense  of 
the  sincerity  of  a  speaker  who  dares  to  invoke  a  divine 
blessing  upon  his  effort. 

*  A  further  attempt  to  convince  the  jury  of  the  sincerity 
and  strength  of  the  defense. 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  289 

He  has  truly  said  that  "  the  declaratory  act,  the 
25th  of  Edward  III.,  is  that  on  which  all  charges  of 
high  treason  are  founded  "  ;  and  I  trust  the  observa- 
tion will  be  deeply  engraven  on  your  hearts.  It  is 
5  an  act  made  to  save  the  subject  from  the  vague  and 
wandering  uncertainty  of  the  law.  It  is  an  act 
which  leaves  it  no  longer  doubtful  whether  a  man 
shall  incur  conviction  by  his  own  conduct,  or  the 
sagacity  of  Crown  construction :  whether  he  shall 

10  sink  beneath  his  own  guilt,  or  the  cruel  and  bar- 
barous refinement  of  Crown  prosecution.  It  has 
been  most  aptly  called  the  blessed  act ;  and  oh !  may 
the  great  God  of  justice  and  of  mercy  give  repose 
and  eternal  blessing  to  the  souls  of  those  honest  men 

15  by  whom  it  was  enacted  !  By  this  law,  no  man  shall 
be  convicted  of  high  treason,  but  on  provable  evi- 
dence; the  overt  acts  of  treason,  as  explained  in  this 
law,  shall  be  stated  clearly  and  distinctly  in  the 
charge ;  and  the  proof  of  these  acts  shall  be  equally 

20  clear  and  distinct,  in  order  that  no  man's  life  may 
depend  on  a  partial  or  wicked  allegation.  It  does 
everything  for  the  prisoner  which  he  could  do  him- 
self, it  does  everything  but  utter  the  verdict,  which 
alone  remains  with  you,  and  which,  I  trust,  you  will 

25  give  in  the  same  pure,  honest,  saving  spirit,  in  which 
that  act  was  formed.  Gentlemen,  I  would  call  it  an 
omnipotent  act,  if  it  could  possibly  appall  the  in- 
former from  our  courts  of  justice ;  but  law  cannot 
do  it,  religion  cannot  do  it,  the  feelings  of  human 

30  nature  frozen  in  the  depraved  heart  of  the  wretched 
informer,  cannot  be  thawed !  ^ 

'  Erskine,  speaking  three  years  later  of  the  same  act, 
calls  attention  in  the  same  way  to  the  precision  with  which 
it  defines  the  point  at  issue  :  but  Erskine's  Scotch  restraint 


290  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

Law  cannot  prevent  the  envenomed  arrow  from 
being  pointed  at  the  intended  victim ;  but  it  has 
given  him  a  shield  in  the  integrity  of  a  jury ! 
Everything  is  so  clear  in  this  act,  that  all  must  un- 
derstand :  the  several  acts  of  treason  must  be  re-  5 
cited,  and  provable  conviction  must  follow.  What 
is  provable  coviction?  Are  you  at  a  loss  to 
know?  Do  you  think  if  a  man  comes  on  the  table, 
and  says,  "  By  virtue  of  my  oath,  I  know  a  con- 
spiracy against  the  state,  and  such  and  such  persons  10 
are  engaged  in  it,"  do  you  think  that  his  mere  alle- 
gation shall  justify  you  in  a  verdict  of  conviction? 
A  witness  coming  on  this  table,  of  whatsoever  de- 
scription, whether  the  noble  Lord  who  has  been  ex- 
amined, or  the  honorable  Judges  on  the  bench,  oris 
Mr.  James  O'Brien,  who  shall  declare  upon  oath 
that  a  man  bought  powder,  ball,  and  arms,  intend- 
ing to  kill  another,  this  is  not  provable  conviction; 
the  unlawful  intention  must  be  shown  by  cogency 
of  evidence,  and  the  credit  of  the  witness  must  stand  20 
strong  and  unimpeached.  The  law  means  not  that 
infamous  assertion  or  dirty  ribaldry  is  to  overthrow 
the  character  of  a  man ;  even  in  these  imputations, 
flung  against  the  victim,  there  is  fortunately  some- 
thing detergent,  that  cleanses  the  character  it  was  25 
destined  to  befoul.^ 

would  not  allow  him  such  an  outburst  of  joy  over  the  act 
which  was  to  save  his  client's  life.  Curran  speaks  of  "  the 
blessed  act "  with  Irish  impulsiveness  and  out  of  the  bitter 
depths  of  Irish  experience.  30 

'  Curran  makes  use  of  a  simple  illustration  to  define  the 
point  at  issue,  showing  exactly  what  is  meant  by  provable 
conviction.  He  sees  the  importance  of  perfectly  clear 
definition  of  every  term  with  which  the  jury  must  do  its 
thinking. 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  29 1 

In  stating  the  law,  gentlemen,  I  have  told  you 
that  the  overt  acts  must  be  laid  and  proved  by  posi- 
tive testimony  of  untainted  witnesses ;  and   in  so 
saying,  I  have  only  spoken  the  language  of  the  most 
5  illustrious  writers  on  the  law  of  England. 

I  should,  perhaps,  apologize  to  you  for  detaining 
your  attention  so  long  on  these  particular  points, 
but  that  in  the  present  disturbed  state  of  the  public 
mind,  and  in  the  abandonment  of  principle  which  it 

10  but  too  frequently  produces,  I  think  I  cannot  too 
strongly  impress  you  with  the  purity  of  legal  dis- 
tinction, so  that  your  souls  shall  not  be  harrowed 
with  those  torturing  regrets  which  the  return  of 
reason  would  bring  along  with  it,  were  you,  on  the 

15  present  occasion,  for  a  moment  to  resign  it  to  the 
subjection  of  your  passions;  for  these,  though  some- 
times amiable  in  their  impetuosity,  can  never  be 
dignified  and  just,  but  under  the  control  of  reason. 
The  charge  against  the  prisoner  is  two-fold:  com- 

20  passing  and  imagining  the  King's  death,  and  ad- 
hering to  the  King's  enemies.  To  be  accurate  on 
this  head  is  not  less  my  intention  than  it  is  my  in- 
terest; for  if  I  fall  into  errors,  they  will  not  escape 
the  learned  counsel  who  is  to  come  after  me,  and 

25  whose  detections  will  not  fail  to  be  made  in  the  cor- 
rect spirit  of  Crown  prosecution. 

Gentlemen,  there  are  no  fewer  than  thirteen  overt 
acts,  as  described,  necessary  to  support  the  indict- 
ment; these,  however,  it  is  not  necessary  to  reca- 

3opitulate.  The  learned  counsel  for  the  Crown  has 
been  perfectly  candid  and  correct  in  saying,  that  if 
any  of  them  suppose  either  species  of  treason 
charged  in  the  indictment,  it  will  be  sufificient  to  at- 
tach the  guilt.     I  do  not  complain  that  on  the  part 


292  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

of  the  Crown  it  was  not  found  expedient  to  point 
out  wiiich  act  or  acts  went  to  support  the  indict- 
ment; neither  will  I  complain,  gentlemen,  if  you  fix 
your  attention  particularly  on  the  circumstances. 

Mr.  Attorney-General  has  been  pleased  to  make  5 
an  observation  which  drew  a  remark  from  my  col- 
league with  which  I  fully  agree,  that  the  atrocity  of 
a  charge  should  make  no  impression  on  you.     It 
was  the  judgment  of  candor  and  liberality,^  and 
should  be  yours ;  nor  though  you  should  more  than  lo 
answer  the  high  opinion   I   entertain  of  you,  and 
though  your  hearts  betray  not  the  consoling  confi- 
dence which  your  looks  inspire,  yet  do  not  disdain 
to  increase  your  stock  of  candor  and  liberality,  from 
whatsoever  source  it  flows;  though  the  abundance  15 
of  my  client's  innocence  may  render  him  independ- 
ent of  its  exertions,  your  country  wants  it  all.     You 
are  not  to  suffer  impressions  of  loyalty,  or  an  en- 
thusiastic love  for  the  sacred  person  of  the  King,  to 
give  your  judgments  the  smallest  bias.     You  are  to  20 
decide  from  the  evidence  which  you  have  heard;  and 
if  the  atrocity  of  the  charge  were  to  have  any  influ- 
ence with  you,  it  should  be  that  of  rendering  you 
more  incredulous  to  the  possibility  of  its  truth. 

I  confess  I  cannot  conceive  a  greater  crime  25 
against  civilized  society,  be  the  form  of  government 
what  it  may,  whether  monarchical,  republican,  or, 
I  had  almost  said,  despotic,  than  attempting  to  de- 
stroy the  life  of  the  person  holding  the  executive  au- 
thority; the  counsel  for  the  Crown  cannot  feel  a  30 
greater  abhorrence  against  it  than  I  do;  and  happy 

'  An  advocate  loses  nothing  by  giving  due  praise  to  his 
opponent's  character,  or  by  apparent  willingness  to  allow 
full  weight  to  his  arguments. 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  293 

am  T,  at  this  moment,  that  I  can  do  justice  to  my 
principles,  and  the  feeHngs  of  my  heart,  without  en- 
dangering the  defense  of  my  cHent,  and  that  defense 
is,  that  your  hearts  would  not  feel  more  reluctant  to 
5  the  perpetration  of  the  crimes  with  which  he  is 
charged,  than  the  man  who  there  stands  at  the  bar 
of  his  country,  waiting  until  you  shall  clear  him 
from  the  foul  and  unmerited  imputation,  until  your 
verdict,  sounding  life  and  honor  to  his  senses,  shall 

10  rescue  him  from  the  dreadful  fascination  of  the  in- 
former's eye.^  ' 

The  overt  acts  in  the  charge  against  the  prisoner 
are  many,  and  all  apparently  of  the  same  nature,  but 
they,  notwithstanding,  admit  of  a  very  material  dis- 

15  tinction.  This  want  of  candor  I  attribute  to  the 
base  imposition  of  the  prosecutor  on  those  who 
brought  him  forward. 

You  find  at  the  bottom  of  the  charge  a  founda- 
tion stone  attempted  to  be  laid  by  O'Brien, — the  de- 

20  liberations  of  a  society  of  United  Irishmen,  and  on 
this  are  laid  all  the  overt  acts.  I  said  the  distinc- 
tion was  of  moment,  because  it  is  endeavored  to  be 
held  forth  to  the  public,  to  all  Europe,  that,  at  a  time 
like  this,  of  peril  and  of  danger,  there  are,  in  one 

25  province  alone,  one  hundred  and  eleven  thousand 
of  your  countrymen  combined  for  the  purpose  of 
destroying  the  King,  and  the  tranquillity  of  the 
country,  which  so  much  depends  on  him,  an  asser- 
tion which  you  should  consider  of  again  and  again, 

30  before  you  give  it  any  other  existence  than  it  derives 
from  the  attainting  breath  of  the    informer.^     If 

-  Curran   states  the    feelings  of  the    prosecution  more 
vividly  than  the  prosecution  itself  could  do. 
*  From  tl]is  point  the  treatment  of  evidence  should  b^ 


294  ARGUMENTATION. 

nothing  should  induce  that  consideration  but  the 
name  of  Irishman,  the  honors  of  which  you  share, 
a  name  so  foully,  and  as  I  shall  demonstrate,  so 
falsely  aspersed,  if  you  can  say  that  one  fact  of 
O'Brien's  testimony  deserves  belief,  all  that  can  5 
from  thence  be  inferred  is,  that  a  great  combina- 
tion of  mind  and  will  exists  on  some  public  sub- 
ject.^ 

What  says  the  written  evidence  on  that  subject? 

What  are  the  obligations  imposed  by  the  test-  to 
oath  of  the  society  of  United  Irishmen?     Is  it  un- 
just to  get  rid  of  religious  differences  and  distinc- 
tions?    W^ould  to  God  it  were  possible!     Is  it  an 
oflfense  against  the  state,  to  promote  a  full,  free,  and 
adequate  representation  of  all  the  people  of  Ireland  15 
in  parliament?     If  it  be,  the  text  is  full  of  its  own 
comment,  it  needs  no  comment  of  mine.     As  to  the 
last  clause,  obliging  to  secrecy:  Now,  gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  in  the  hearing  of  the  court,  I  submit  to  the 
opposite  counsel  this  question.     I  will  make  my  ad- 20 
versary  my  arbiter.     Taking  the  test-oath  as  thus 
written,  is  there  anything  of  treason  in  it?     How- 
ever objectionable  it  may  be,  it  certainly  is  not  trea- 
sonable.^ 

I  admit  there  may  be  a  colorable  combination  of  25 
words  to  conceal  a  really  bad  design;  but  to  what 
evils  would  it  not  expose  society,  if,  in  this  case,  to 

noted.      Before   attending    to  the   particular    charges  of 
O'Brien,  the  chief  witness,  Curran  calls  the  common  sense 
of  his  hearers  to  note  the  improbability  of  the  basis  on  30 
which  they  all  rest.     He  will  return  later  to  the  same  point. 

'  A  skillful  appeal  to  the  sentiment  of  clan. 

-  Again  Curran  scores  by  his  courteous  and  confident 
attitude  toward  the  opposition. 


DEFENSE    OF  PATRICK  FINAEY.  295 

suppose  were  to  decide.  A  high  legal  authority  thus 
speaks  on  this  subject:  "  Strong,  indeed,  must  the 
evidence  be  which  goes  to  prove  that  any  man  can 
mean,  by  words,  anything  more  than  what  is  con- 
5  veyed  in  their  ordinary  acceptation."  If  the  test 
of  any  particular  community  were  an  open  one — if, 
like  the  London  Corresponding  Society,  it  was  to  be 
openly  published,  then,  indeed,  there  might  be  a 
reason  for  not  using  words  in  their  common  appli- 

io  cation;  but,  subject  to  no  public  discussion,  at  least 
not  intended  to  be  so,  why  should  the  proceedings  of 
those  men,  or  the  obligation  by  which  they  are  con- 
nected, be  expressed  in  the  phraseology  of  studied 
concealment?     If  men  meet  in  secret,  to  talk  over 

15  how  best  the  French  can  invade  this  country,  to 
what  purpose  is  it  that  they  take  an  engagement 
different  in  meaning?  Common  sense  rejects  the 
idea! 

Gentlemen,  having  stated  these  distinctions,  I  am 

20  led  to  the  remaining  divisions  of  the  subject  you 
are  to  consider.  I  admit,  that  because  a  man  merely 
takes  this  obligation  of  union,  it  cannot  prevent  his 
becoming  a  traitor  if  he  pleases ;  but  the  question 
for  you  to  decide  on  would  then  be,  whether  every 

25  man  who  takes  it  must  necessarily  be  a  traitor? 

Independent  of  that  engagement,  have  any  super- 
added facts  been  proved  against  the  prisoner? 
What  is  the  evidence  of  O'Brien?  What  has  he 
stated?     Here,  gentlemen,  let  me  claim  the  benefits 

30  of  that  great  privilege  which  distinguishes  trial  by 
jury  in  this  country  from  all  the  world.  Twelve 
men,  not  emerging  from  the  must  and  cobwebs  of 
a  study,  abstracted  from  human  nature,  or  only  ac- 
quainted with  its  extravagancies;  but  twelve  men. 


29^  ARGUMENTATION. 

conversant  with  life,  and  practiced  in  those  feeUngs 
which  mark  the  common  and  necessary  intercourse 
between  man  and  man,  such  are  you,  gentlemen.^ 
How,  then,  does  Mr.  O'Brien's  tale  hang  to- 
gether? Look  to  its  commencement.  He  walks  5 
along  Thomas  Street,  in  the  open  day  (a  street  not 
the  least  populous  in  this  city),  and  is  accosted  by  a 
man  who,  without  any  preface,  tells  him  he'll  be 
murdered  before  he  goes  half  the  street,  unless  he 
becomes  a  United  Irishman !  Do  you  think  this  is  10 
a  probable  story?  Suppose  any  of  you,  gentlemen, 
be  a  United  Irishman,  or  a  Freemason,  or  a  Friendly 
Brother,  and  that  you  meet  me  walking  imwcently 
along,  just  like  Mr.  O'Brien,  and  meaning  no  harm, 
would  you  say,  "  Stop,  Mr.  Curran,  don't  go  fur-  15 
ther,  you'll  be  murdered  before  you  go  half  the 
street,  if  you  do  not  become  a  United  Irishman,  a 
Freemason,  or  a  Friendly  Brother  "  ?  Did  you  ever 
hear  so  coaxing  an  invitation  to  felony  as  this? 
"  Sweet  Mr.  James  O'Brien!  come  in  and  save  your 20 
precious  life — come  in  and  take  an  oath,  or  you'll 
be  murdered  before  you  go  half  the  street!  Do, 
sweetest,  dearest  Mr.  James  O'Brien,  come  in,  and 
do  not  risk  your  valuable  existence."  What  a  loss 
had  he  been  to  his  King,  whom  he  loves  so  mar-  25 
velously !  Well,  what  does  poor  Mr.  O'Brien  do? 
Poor,  dear  man,  he  stands  petrified  with  the  mag- 
nitude of  his  danger, — all  his  members  refuse  their 
office, — he  can  neither  run  from  the  danger,  nor  call 
out  for  assistance ;  his  tongue  cleaves  to  his  mouth,  30 
and  his  feet  incorporate  with  the  paving-stones;  it 

'  This  paragraph  not  only  flatters  the  jurors  subtly,  but 
is  undeniably  reasonable.  Curran  directs  all  his  art  to  per- 
suade the  jury  that  the  whoie  case  is  easily  comprehensible. 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  297 

is  in  vain  that  his  expressive  eye  silently  implores 
protection  of  the  passenger;  he  yields  at  length,  as 
men  have  done,  and  resignedly  submits  to  his  fate. 
He  then  enters  the  house,  and  being  led  into  a  room, 
5  a  parcel  of  men  make  faces  at  him ;  but  mark  the 
metamorphosis ;  well  may  it  be  said,  that  "  miracles 
will  never  cease ;  "  he  who  feared  to  resist  in  open 
air,  and  in  the  face  of  the  public,  becomes  a  bravo 
when  pent  up  in  a  room,  and  environed  by  sixteen 

10  men ;  and  one  is  obliged  to  bar  the  door,  while  an- 
other swears  him,  which,  after  some  resistance,  is 
accordingly  done,  and  poor  Mr.  O'Brien  becomes  a 
United  Irishman,  for  no  earthly  purpose  whatever, 
but  merely  to  save  his  sweet  life.^ 

15  But  this  is  not  all, — the  pill,  so  bitter  to  the  per- 
cipiency  of  his  loyal  palate,  must  be  washed  down; 
and,  lest  he  should  throw  it  off  his  stomach,  he  is 
filled  up  to  the  neck  with  beef  and  whisky.  What 
further  did  they  do? 

20  Mr.  O'Brien,  thus  persecuted,  abused  and  terri- 
fied, would  have  gone  and  lodged  his  sorrows  in  the 
sympathetic  bosom  of  the  Major;  but  to  prevent 
him  even  this  little  solace,  they  made  him  drunk. 
The  next  evening  they  used  him  in  the  like  barbar- 

25  ous  manner ;  so  that  he  was  not  only  sworn  against 
his  will,  but, — poor  man, — he  was  made  drunk, 
against  his  inclination.  Thus  was  he  besieged  with 
united  beefsteaks  and  whisky ;  and  against  such  po- 
tent assailants  not  even  Mr.  O'Brien  could  prevail. 

-Q  Whether  all  this  whisky  that  he  has  been  forced 
to  drink  has  produced  the  effect  or  not,  Mr. 
O'Brien's  loyalty  is  better  than  his  memory.     In 

'  This  ridiciile    is    undignified,  but  it    was  warranted, 
and  was  certainly  effective. 


2^9^  ARGUMENTATION'. 

the  spirit  of  loyalty  he  became  prophetic,  and  told 
Lord  Portarlington  the  circumstances  relative  to 
the  intended  attack  on  the  ordnance  stores  full  three 
weeks  before  he  had  obtained  the  information 
through  mortal  agency.  Oh,  honest  James  O'Brien !  5 
honest  James  O'Brien!  Let  others  vainly  argue  on 
logical  truth  and  ethical  falsehood;  but  if  I  can  once 
fasten  him  to  the  ring  of  perjury,  I  will  bait  him  at 
it,  until  his  testimony  shall  fail  of  producing  a  ver- 
dict, although  human  nature  were  as  vile  and  mon- 10 
strous  in  you  as  she  is  in  him !  He  has  made  a  mis- 
take! but  surely  no  man's  life  is  safe  if  such  evidence 
were  admissible ;  what  argument  can  be  founded  on 
his  testimony,  when  he  swears  he  has  perjured  him- 
self, and  that  anything  he  says  must  be  false?  I  15 
must  not  believe  him  at  all,  and  by  a  paradoxical 
conclusion,  suppose,  against  "  the  damnation  "  of 
his  own  testimony,  that  he  is  an  honest  man! 

Strongly  as  I  feel  my  interest  keep  pace  with  that 
of  my  client,  I  would  not  defend  him  at  the  expense  20 
of  truth ;  I  seek  not  to  make  the  witness  worse  than 
he  is :  whatever  he  may  be,  God  Almighty  convert 
his   mind !     May   his   reprobation, — but   I   beg  his 
pardon, — let  your  verdict  stamp  that  currency  on  his 
credit;  it  will  have  more  force  than  any  casual  re-  25 
marks   of   mine.^     How   this   contradiction   in   Mr. 
O'Brien's  evidence  occurred,  I  am  at  no  loss  to  un- 
derstand.    He  started  from  the  beginning  with  an 
intention  of  informing  against  some  person,  no  mat- 
ter against  whom ;  and   whether  he  ever  saw  the  30 
prisoner  at  the  time  he  gave  the  information  to 
Lord  Portarlington,  is  a  question;  but  none,  that  he 

'  More  subtle  flattery,    without  the  least  digression   in 
order  to  administer  it. 


DEFENSE    OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  299 

fabricated  the  story  for  the  purpose  of  imposing  on 
the  honest  zeal  of  the  law  officers  of  the  crown. 

Having  now  glanced  at  a  part  of  this  man's  evi- 
dence, I  do  not  mean  to  part  with  him  entirely ;  I 
5  shall  have  occasion  to  visit  him  again ;  but  before 
I  do,  let  me,  gentlemen,  once  more  impress  upon 
your  minds  the  observation  which  my  colleague  ap- 
plied to  the  laws  of  high  treason,  that  if  they  are 
not   explained   on   the  statute-book,   they  are   ex- 

10  plained  on  the  hearts  of  all  honest  men;  and,  as  St. 
Paul  says,  "  though  they  know  not  the  law,  they 
obey  the  statutes  thereof."  The  essence  of  the 
charge  submitted  to  your  consideration  tends  to  the 
dissolution  of  the  connection  between  Ireland  and 

15  Great  Britain. 

1  own  it  is  with  much  warmth  and  self-gratula- 
tion  that  I  feel  this  calumny  answered  by  the  at- 
tachment of  every  good  man  to  the  British  constitu- 
tion.    I  feel, — I  embrace  its  principles ;  and  when 

20  I  look  on  you,  the  proudest  benefit  of  that  constitu- 
tion, I  am  relieved  from  the  fears  of  advocacy,  since 
I  place  my  client  under  the  influence  of  its  sacred 
shade.  This  is  not  the  idle  sycophancy  of  words. 
It  is  not  crying  "  Lord !  Lord !  "  but  doing  "  the  will 

25  of  my  Father  who  is  in  heaven."  If  my  client  were 
to  be  tried  by  a  jury  of  Ludgate-hill  shopkeepers, 
he  would,  ere  now,  be  in  his  lodging.  The  law  of 
England  would  not  suffer  a  man  to  be  cruelly 
butchered  in  a  court  of  justice.^     The  law  of  Eng- 

S'^  land  recognizes  the  possibility  of  villains  thirsting 
for  the  blood  of  their  fellow-creatures;  and  the  peo- 

'  There  was  doubtless  much  truth  in  this  assertion,  but 
Curran's  chief  purpose  was  to  reap  the  benefit  of  the  reac^ 
tioQ  which  would  follow  his  stinging  taunt. 


3 oo  ARC  UMEN TA  TION. 

pie  of  Ireland  have  no  cause  to  be  incredulous  of  the 
fact. 

In  that  country,  St.  Paul's  is  not  more  public  than 
the  charge  made  against  the  poorest  creature  that 
crawls  upon  the  soil  of  England.  There  must  be  5 
two  witnesses  to  convict  the  prisoner  of  high  trea- 
son. The  prisoner  must  have  a  copy  of  the  juror's 
names,  by  whom  he  may  eventually  be  tried;  he 
must  have  a  list  of  the  witnesses  that  are  to  be  pro- 
duced against  him,  that  they  may  not,  vampire  like,  lo 
come  crawling  out  of  the  grave  to  drink  his  blood ; 
but  that,  by  having  a  list  of  their  names  and 
places  of  abode,  he  may  inquire  into  their  char- 
acters and  modes  of  life,  that,  if  they  are  in- 
famous, he  may  be  enabled  to  defend  himself  15 
against  the  attacks  of  their  perjury  and  suborna- 
tion. There  must,  I  say,  be  two  witnesses,  that 
the  jury  may  be  satisfied,  if  they  believe  the 
evidence,  that  the  prisoner  is  guilty;  and  if  there 
be  but  one  witness,  the  jury  shall  not  be  troubled  20 
with  the  idle  folly  of  listening  to  the  prisoner's  de- 
fense. If  there  be  but  one  witness,  there  is  the 
less  possibility  of  contradicting  him ;  he  the  less 
fears  any  detection  of  his  murderous  tale,  having 
only  infernal  communication  between  him  and  the  25 
author  of  all  evil ;  and  when  on  the  table,  which  he 
makes  the  altar  of  his  sacrifice,  however  common 
men  may  be  affected  at  sight  of  the  innocent  victim, 
it  cannot  be  supposed  that  the  prompter  of  his  per- 
jury will  instigate  him  to  retribution :  this  is  the  law  30 
in  England,  and  God  forbid  that  Irishmen  should 
so  differ,  in  the  estimation  of  the  law,  from  Eng- 
lishmen, that  their  blood  is  not  equally  worth  pre- 
serving.    I  do  not,  gentlemen,  apply  any  part  of 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  3° I 

this  observation  to  you ;  you  are  Irishmen  your- 
selves, and  I  know  you  will  act  proudly  and  hon- 
estly. The  law  of  England  renders  two  witnesses 
necessary,  and  one  witness  insufficient,  to  take  away 
5  the  life  of  a  man  on  a  charge  of  high  treason.^  This 
is  founded  on  the  principle  of  common  sense,  and 
common  justice;  for,  unless  the  subject  were 
guarded  by  this  wise  prevention,  every  wretch  who 
could   so  pervert  the  powers   of  invention,   as  to 

to  trump  up  a  tale  of  treason  and  conspiracy,  would 
have  it  in  his  power  to  defraud  the  Crown  into  the 
most  abominable  and  afflicting  acts  of  cruelty  and 
oppression. 

Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  though  from  the  evidence 

15  which  has  been  adduced  against  the  prisoner,  they 
have  lost  their  value,  yet  had  they  been  necessary, 
I  must  tell  you,  that  my  client  came  forward  under 
a  disadvantage  of  great  magnitude,  the  absence  of 
two  witnesses  very  material  to  his  defense;  I  am 

20  now  at  liberty  to  say,  what  I  am  instructed  would 
have  been  proved  by  May,  and  Mr.  Roberts. 

But,  you  will  ask,  why  is  not  Mr.  Roberts 
here?  Recollect  the  admission  of  O'Brien,  that  he 
threatened  to  settle  him,  and  you  will  cease  to  won- 

25  der  at  his  absence,  when,  if  he  came,  the  dagger  was 
in  preparation  to  be  plunged  into  his  heart.     I  said 

'  Curran  has  damaged  if  not  demolished  the  first  part  of 
the  adverse  testimony,  but  he  takes  no  chances.  He  points 
out  that  O'Brien's  evidence,  even  if  valid,  would  be  inade- 
20  quate  to  convict,  for  there  must  be  two  witnesses  in  order 
to  prove  treason.  It  was  precisely  under  a  similar  defini- 
tion that  Aaron  Burr  escaped  hanging.  There  was  little 
doubt  of  Burr's  treason,  but  there  were  not  two  witnesses 
of  it. 


302  ARGUMENTATION. 

Mr.  Roberts  was  absent,  I  correct  myself ;  no !  in 
effect  he  is  here :  I  appeal  to  the  heart  of  that  ob- 
durate man  [O'Brien],  what  would  have  been  his 
[Roberts's]  testimony,  if  he  had  dared  to  venture  a 
personal  evidence  on  this  trial?  Gracious  God!  is  ^ 
a  tyranny  of  this  kind  to  be  borne  with,  where  law 
is  said  to  exist?  Shall  the  horrors  which  surround 
the  informer,  the  ferocity  of  his  countenance,  and 
the  terrors  of  his  voice,  cast  such  a  wide  and  ap- 
palling influence,  that  none  dare  approach  and  save  ic 
the  victim,  which  he  marks  for  ignominy  and 
death !  ^  Now,  gentlemen,  be  pleased  to  look  to  the 
rest  of  O'Brien's  testimony :  he  tells  you  there  are 
one  hundred  and  eleven  thousand  men  in  one  prov- 
ince, added  to  ten  thousand  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  15 
metropolis,  ready  to  assist  the  object  of  an  inva- 
sion !  -  Gentlemen,  are  you  prepared  to  say  that 
the  kingdom  of  Ireland  has  been  so  forsaken  by  all 
principles  of  humanity  and  of  loyalty,  that  there  are 
now  no  less  than  111,000  men  sworn  by  the  most  20 
solemn  of  all  engagements,  and  connected  in  a 
deadly  combination  to  destroy  the  constitution  of  the 
country,  and  to  invite  the  common  enemy,  the 
French,  to  invade  it — are  you  prepared  to  say  this 
by  your  verdict?  When  you  know  not  the  inten- 25 
tions  or  the  means  of  that  watchful  and  insatiable 
enemy,  do  you  think  it  would  be  wise  by  your  ver- 
dict of  guilty,  to  say,  on  the  single  testimony 
of    a    common    informer,    that    you    do    believe 

'  Perhaps  Roberts  stayed  away  out  of  feat,  and  perhaps  30 
Curran  told  him  to  stay  away,  in  order  to  magnify  O'Brien's 
threat.    We  shall  never  know. 

'^  Here  Curran  returns  to  apply  the  argument  from  high 
probability. 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  303 

Upon  your  oaths  that  there  is  a  body  con- 
sisting of  no  less  a  number  than  111,000  men 
ready  to  assist  the  French,  if  they  should 
make  an  attempt  upon  this  country,  and  ready 
5  to  fly  to  their  standard  whenever  they  think 
proper  to  invade  it?  This  is  another  point  of  view 
in  which  to  examine  this  case.  You  know  the  dis- 
tress and  convulsion  of  the  public  mind  for  a  con- 
siderable length  of  time ;  cautiously  will  I_  abstain 

10  from  making  observations  that  could  refresh  the 
public  memory,  situated  as  I  am,  in  a  court  of  jus- 
tice. But,  gentlemen,  this  is  the  first,  the  only  trial 
for  high  treason,  in  which  an  informer  gives  his  no- 
tions of  the  propriety  or  impropriety  of  public  meas- 

15  ures ;  I  remember  none — except  the  trial  of  that  un- 
fortunate wanderer,  that  unhappy  fugitive,  for  so  I 
may  call  him,  Jackson,  a  native  of  this  country — 
guilty  he  was,  but  neither  his  guilt  nor  innocence 
had  any  affinity  with  any  other  system.     But  this  is 

20  the  first  trial  that  has  been  brought  forward  for 
high  treason,  except  that,  where  such  matters  have 
been  disclosed ;  and,  gentlemen,  are  you  prepared  to 
think  well  of  the  burden  of  embarking  your  char- 
acter, high  and  respectable,  on  the  evidence  of  an 

25  abandoned,  and  I  will  show  you,  a  perjured  and 
common  informer,  in  declaring  you  are  ready  to 
offer  up  to  death  111,000  men,  one  by  one,  by  the 
sentence  of  a  court  of  justice?  Are  you  ready  to 
meet  it  ?     Do  not  suppose  I  am  base  or  mean  enough 

30  to  say  anything  to  intimidate  you,  when  I  talk  to 
you  of  such  an  event ;  but  if  you  were  prepared  for 
such  a  scene,  what  would  be  your  private  reflec- 
tions were  you  to  do  any  such  thing?  Therefore  I 
put  the  question  fairly  to  you — have  you  made  up 


304  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

your  minds  to  tell  the  public,  that  as  soon  as  James 
O'Brien  shall  choose  to  come  forward  again,  to 
make  the  same  charge  against  111,000  other  men, 
you  are  ready  to  see  so  many  men,  so  many  of  your 
fellow-subjects  and  fellow-citizens,  drop  one  by  one  5 
into  the  grave,  dug  for  them  by  his  testimony  ? 

Do  not  think  I  am  speaking  disrespectfully  of 
you  when  I  say,  that  while  an  O'Brien  may  be 
found,  it  may  be  the  lot  of  the  proudest  among  you 
to  be  in  the  dock  instead  of  the  jury-box.  If  you  10 
were  standing  there,  how  would  you  feel  if  you 
found  that  the  evidence  of  such  a  wretch  would  be 
admitted  as  sufficient  to  attaint  your  life,  and  send 
you  to  an  ignominious  death?  Remember,  I  do  be- 
seech you,  that  great  mandate  of  your  religion — 15 
"  Do  thou  unto  all  men  as  you  would  they  should  do 
unto  you." 

Give  me  leave  to  put  another  point  to  you — what 
is  the  reason  that  you  deliberate — that  you  con- 
descend to  listen  to  me  with  such  attention  ?  Why  2c 
are  you  so  anxious,  if,  even  from  me,  anything 
should  fall  tending  to  enlighten  you  on  the  present 
awful  occasion?  It  is,  because,  bound  by  the  sa- 
cred obligations  of  an  oath,  your  heart  will  not  al- 
low you  to  forfeit  it.  Have  you  any  doubt  that  it  is  25 
the  object  of  O'Brien  to  take  down  the  prisoner  for 
the  reward  that  follows?  Have  you  not  seen  with 
what  more  than  instinctive  keenness  this  blood- 
hound has  pursued  his  victim?  how  he  has  kept  him 
in  view  from  place  to  place,  until  he  hunts  him  "h^ 
through  the  avenues  of  the  court  to  where  the  un- 
happy man  stands  now,  hopeless  of  all  succor  but 
that  which  your  verdict  shall  afford.  I  have  heard 
of  assassination  by  sword,  by  pistol,  and  by  dagger; 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  305 

but  here  is  a  wretch  who  would  dip  the  Evangelists 
in  blood;  if  he  thinks  he  has  not  sworn  his  victim  to 
death,  he  is  ready  to  swear,  without  mercy  and 
without  end:  but  oh!  do  not,  I  conjure  you,  suffer 
5  him  to  take  an  oath ;  the  hand  of  the  murderer 
should  not  pollute  the  purity  of  the  gospel:  if  he 
will  swear,  let  it  be  on  the  knife,  the  proper  symbol 
of  his  profession! 

Gentlemen,  I  am  again  reminded  of  that  tissue 

10  of  abominable  slander  and  calumny  with  which 
O'Brien  has  endeavored  to  load  so  great  a  portion 
of  the  adult  part  of  your  country.  Is  it  possible  you 
can  believe  the  report  of  that  wretch,  that  no  less 
than  111,000  men  are  ready  to  destroy  and  overturn 

15  the  government?  I  do  not  believe  the  abominable 
slander.  I  may  have  been  too  quick  in  condemn- 
ing this  man ;  and  I  know  the  argument  which  will 
be  used,  and  to  a  certain  degree,  it  is  not  without 
sense — that  you  cannot  always  expect  witnesses  of 

20  the  most  unblemished  character,  and  such  things 
would  never  be  brought  to  light  if  witnesses  like 
O'Brien  were  rejected  altogether.  The  argument 
is  of  some  force ;  but  does  it  hold  here  ?  or  are  you  to 
believe  it  as  a  truth,  because  the  fact  is  sworn  to  by 

25  an  abominable  and  perjured  witness?  No;  the  law 
of  England,  the  so-often-mentioned  principle  upon 
which  that  important  statute  is  framed,  denies  the 
admission.  An  English  judge  would  be  bound  to 
tell  you,  and  the  learned  judges  present  will  tell  you, 

30  that  a  single  accomplice  is  not  to  be  believed  with- 
out strong  corroborative  confirmation — I  do  not 
know  where  a  contrary  principle  was  entertained;  if 
such  has  been  the  case,  I  never  heard  of  it.  O'Brien 
stated  himself  to  have  been  involved  in  the  guilt  of 


306  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

the  prisoner,   in  taking  the  obligation  which  was 
forced  on  him,  and  which  he  was  afterwards  obhged 
to  wash  down ;  but  may  not  the  whole  description 
given  by  him  be  false?     May  he  not  have  fabricated 
that  story,  and  come  forward  as  an  informer  in  a  5 
transaction  that  never  happened,  from  the  expecta- 
tion of  pay  and  profit?     How  does  he  stand?     He 
stands  divested  of  a  single  witness  to  support  his 
character  or  the  truth  of  his  assertions,  when  num- 
bers were  necessary  for  each.     You  would  be  most  lo 
helpless  and  unfortunate  men,   if  everything  said 
by  the  witness  laid  you  under  a  necessity  of  believ- 
ing it.     Therefore  he  must  be  supported  either  by 
collateral  or  confirmatory  evidence.^     Has  he  been 
supported   by   any    collateral    evidence,   confirming  15 
what   was   sworn  this  day?     No.     Two  witnesses 
have  been  examined,  they  are  not  additional  wit- 
nesses to  the  overt  acts ;  but  if  either  of  them  should 
carry  any  conviction  to  your  minds,  you  must  be 
satisfied  that  the  evidence  given  by  O'Brien  is  false.  20 
I  will  not  pollute  the  respectable  and  honorable  char- 
acter of  Lord  Portarlington,  by  mentioning  it  with 
the  false  and  perjured  O'Brien.     Does  his  lordship 
tell  you  a  single  word  but  what  O'Brien  said  to   ^ 
him?     Because,  if  his  lordship  told  all  here  that 25 
O'Brien  told  him,  O'Brien  has  done  the  same  too; 
and  though  he  has  told  Lord  Portarlington  every 
word  which  he  has  sworn  on  the  table,  yet  still  the 
evidence  given  by  his  lordship  cannot  be  corrobo- 
rative, because  the  probability  is  that  he  told  a  false-  30 
hood;  you  must  take  that  evidence  by  comparison. 

'  Having  shown  the  probable  absurdity  of  O'Brien's  testi- 
mony, Curran  now  proceeds  to  show  that  it  is  without  con- 
firmation of  any  sort. 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  30? 

And  what  did  he  tell  Lord  Portarlington  ?  or,  rather, 
what  has  Lord  Portarlington  told  you?  That 
O'Brien  did  state  to  him  the  project  of  robbing  the 
ordnance  some  time  before  he  could  possibly  have 

5  known  it  himself.     And  it  is  material  that  he  swore 
on  the  table  that  he  did  not  know  of  the  plot  till  his 
'     third  meeting  with  the  societies ;  and  Lord  Portar- 
lington swears  that  he  told  it  to  him  on  the  first  in- 
terview with  him :  there  the  contradiction  of  O'Brien 

lo  by  Lord  Portarlington  is  material ;  and  the  testi- 
mony of  Lord  Portarlington  may  be  put  out  of  the 
case,  except  so  far  as  it  contradicts  that  of  O'Brien. 
[Mr.  Justice  Chamberlain — It  is  material,  Mr. 
Curran,    that    Lord    Portarlington    did    not    swear 

15  positively  it  was  at  the  first  interview,  but  that  he 
was  inclined  to  believe  it  was  so.] 

Mr.  Curran — Your  lordship  will  recollect  that 
he  said  O'Brien  did  not  say  anything  of  con- 
sequence   at    any    of    the    other    interviews;    but 

2o  I  put  his  lordship  out  of  the  question,  so  far 
as  he  does  not  contradict  O'Brien,  and  he 
does  so.  If  I  am  stating  anything  through  mis- 
take, I  would  wish  to  be  set  right;  but  Lord 
Portarlington   said  he  did  not  recollect  anything 

25  of  importance  at  any  subsequent  meeting;  and 
as  far  as  he  goes,  he  does  beyond  contradiction  es- 
tablish the  false  swearing  of  O'Brien.  I  am  strictly 
right  in  stating  the  contradiction :  so  far  as  it  can  be 
compared  with  the  testimony  of  O'Brien,  it  does 

30  weaken  it ;  and,  therefore,  I  will  leave  it  there,  and 
put  Lord  Portarlington  out  of  the  question — that  is, 
as  if  he  had  not  been  examined  at  all,  but  where  he 
differs  from  the  evidence  given  by  O'Brien. 

As  to  the  witness  Clarke,  after  all  he  has  sworn, 


3o8  ARGUMENTATION. 

you  cannot  but  be  satisfied  he  has  not  said  a  single 
word  materially  against  the  prisoner;  he  has  not 
given  any  confirmatory  evidence  in  support  of  any 
one  overt  act  laid  in  the  indictment.  You  have 
them  upon  your  minds — he  has  not  said  one  word  5 
as  to  the  various  meetings — levying  money,  or  send- 
ing persons  to  France;^  and,  therefore,  I  do  warn 
you  against  giving  it  that  attention  for  which  it  has 
been  introduced.  He  does  not  make  a  second  wit- 
ness. Gentlemen,  in  alluding  to  the  evidence  of  10 
Lord  Portarlington,  which  I  have  already  men- 
tioned, I  was  bound  to  make  some  observations. 
On  the  evidence  of  Clarke  I  am  also  obliged  to  do 
the  same,  because  he  has  endeavored  to  prejudice 
your  minds  by  an  endeavor  to  give  a  sliding  evi- 15 
dence  of  what  does  not  by  any  means  come  within 
this  case ;  that  is,  a  malignant  endeavor  to  impute  a 
horrid  transaction — the  murder  of  a  man  of  the 
name  of  Thompson — to  the  prisoner  at  the  bar;  but 
I  do  conjure  you  to  consider  what  motives  there  can  20 
be  for  insinuations  of  this  sort,  and  why  such  a 
(transaction,  so  remote  from  the  case  before  you, 
should  be  endeavored  to  be  impressed  on  your 
minds.  Gentlemen,  I  am  not  blinking  the  question ; 
I  come  boldly  up  to  it;  and  I  ask  you,  in  the  pres-  2s 
ence  of  the  court  and  of  your  God,  is  there  one 
word  of  evidence  that  bears  the  shadow  of  such  a 
charge,  as  the  murder  of  that  unfortunate  man,  to 
the  prisoner  at  the  bar?  Is  there  one  word  to  show 
how  he  died — whether  by  force,  or  by  any  other  30 
means?     Is  there  a  word  how  he  came  to  his  end? 

'  Curran  insists  that  no  evidence  which  does  not  bear 
directly  on  the  issue  shall  be  admitted  or  allowed  to 
divert  the  minds  of  the  jury. 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY  309 

Is  there  a  word  to  bring-  a  shadow  of  suspicion  that 
can  be  attached  to  the  prisoner?  Gentlemen,  my 
cHent  has  been  deprived  of  the  benefit  of  a  witness, 
May,  (you  have  heard  of  it,)  who,  had  the  trial  been 
5  postponed,  might  have  been  able  to  attend;  we  have 
not  been  able  to  examine  him,  but  you  may  guess 
what  he  would  have  said — he  would  have  dis- 
credited the  informer  O'Brien.^  The  evidence  of 
O'Brien  ought  to  be  supported  by  collateral  circum- 

10  stances.  It  is  not ;  and  though  Roberts  is  not  here, 
yet  you  may  conjecture  what  he  would  have  said. 
But,  gentlemen,  I  have  examined  five  witnesses,  and 
it  does  seem  as  if  there  had  been  some  providential 
interference  carried  on  in  bringing  five  witnesses  to 

15  contradict  O'Brien  in  his  testimony,  as  to  direct 
matters  of  fact,  if  his  testimony  could  be  put  in  com- 
petition with  direct  positive  evidence.  O'Brien 
said,  he  knew  nothing  of  ordering  back  any  money 
to  Margaret  Moore ;  he  denied  that  fact.     The  wo- 

20  man  was  examined — what  did  she  say  on  the  table 
in  the  presence  of  O'Brien  ?  That  "  an  order  was 
made,  and  the  money  refunded,  after  the  magis- 
trate had  abused  him  for  his  conduct."  What 
would  you  think  of  your  servant,  if  you  found  him 

25  committing  such  perjury — would  you  believe  him? 
What  do  you  think  of  this  fact  ?  O'Brien  denies  he 
knew  anything  of  the  money  being  refunded ! 
What    does    Mrs.    Moore    say?      That    after    the 

1  Curran  has  shown  the  absurdity  of  one  part  of  O'Brien's 
30  testimony,  the  highly  probable  absurdity  of  another  part, 
and  the  absence  of  all  collateral  and  confirmatory  evidence. 
Having  disposed  of  these  matters  on  their  own  demerits, 
he  now  proceeds  to  discredit  O'Brien  by  a  bitter  attack  on 
his  character. 


3 1  o  ARG UMENTA  TION. 

magistrate    had    abused    him     for    his    conduct, 
the    money    was    refunded,    and    that    "  she    and 
O'Brien   walked   down   stairs   together!  "     Is   this 
an  accidental  trip,  a  little  stumble  of  conscience, 
or,    is    it    not    downright,    willful    perjury?     What    5 
said   Mr.    Clarke?     I   laid   the   foundation   of   the 
evidence  by  asking   O'Brien,   did   you   ever  pass 
for  a  revenue  officer?     I  call,  gentlemen,  on  your 
knowledge   of   the   human    character,    and    of   hu- 
man   life,    what    was    the    conduct    of    the    man?  lo 
Was  it  what  you  would  have  acted,  if  you  had  been 
called  on  in  a  court  of  justice?     Did  he  answer  me 
candidly  ?     Do  you  remember  his  manner  ?     "  Not, 
sir,  that  I  remember ;  it  could  not  be  when  I  was 
sober."     "  Did  you  do  it  at  all?"     What  was  the  15 
answer — "  I  might,  sir,  have  done  it ;  but  I  must 
have  been  drunk.     I  never  did  anything  dishonest." 
Why  did  he  answer  thus?     Because  he  did  imagine 
he  would  have  been  opposed  in  his  testimony,  he  not 
only    added    perjury    to    his    prevarication,    but   he  20 
added   robbery  to  both.     There  are  thousands   of 
your  fellow-subjects  waiting  to  know,  if  the  fact 
charged  upon  the  nation  of  1 1 1,000  men  ready  to  as- 
sist the  common  enemy  be  true ;  if  upon  the  evidence 
of  an  abandoned  wretch,  a  common  cheat,  a  robber,  25 
and  a  perjurer,  you  will  convict  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar.     As  to  his  being  a  coiner.     I  will  not  pass  that 
felony  in  payment  among  his  other  crimes,  but  I 
will  offer  it  by  itself:  I  will  offer  it  as  an  emblem 
of  his  conscience,  copper-washed — I  will  offer  it  by  30 
itself. 

What  has  O'Brien  said?  "I  never  remember 
that  I  did  pretend  to  be  a  revenue  officer;  but  I  re- 
member there   was   a   man   said   somethinsr  about 


DEFENSE  OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  31 1 

whisky;  and  I  remember,  I  threatened  to  complain, 
and  he  was  a  little  frightened — and  he  gave  me 
three  and  three  pence !  "  I  asked  him,  "  Did  his 
wife  give  you  anything?  "  "  There  was  three  and 
5  three  pence  between  them."  "  Who  gave  you  the 
money?  "  "  It  was  all  I  got  from  both  of  them!  " 
Gentlemen,  would  you  let  him  into  your  house  as  a 
servant?  Suppose  one  of  you  wanted  a  servant, 
and  went  to  the  other  to  get  one ;  and  suppose  that 

10  you  heard  that  he  personated  a  revenue  officer ;  that 
he  had  threatened  to  become  an  informer  against 
persons  not  having  licenses,  in  order  to  extort 
money  to  compromise  the  actions,  would  you  take 
him  as  a  servant?     If  you  would  not  take  him  as 

15  servant  in  exchange  for  his  wages,  would  you  take 
his  perjuries  in  exchange  for  the  life  of  a  fellow- 
subject?  Let  me  ask  you,  how  would  you  show 
your  faces  to  the  public,  and  justify  a  barter  of  that 
kind,  if  you  were  to  establish  and  send  abroad  his 

zoassignats  of  perjury  to  pass  current  as  the  price  of 
human  blood?  How  could  you  bear  the  tyranny 
your  consciences  would  exercise  over  you;  the  dag- 
ger that  would  turn  upon  your  heart's  blood,  if  in 
the  moment  of  madness  you  could  suffer  by  your 

25  verdict  the  sword  of  justice  to  fall  on  the  head  of  a 
victim  committed  to  your  sworn  humanity,  to  be 
massacred  in  your  presence  by  the  perjured  and 
abominable  evidence  that  has  been  offered!  But 
does  it  stop  there?     Has  perjury  rested  there? — No. 

30  What  said  the  honest-looking,  unlettered  mind  of 
the  poor  farmer ?  What  said  Cavanagh ?  "I  keep 
a  public-house, — O'Brien  came  to  me,  and  pretended 
he  was  a  revenue  officer, — I  knew  not  but  it  might 
be  so ;— he  told  me  he  was  so — he  examined  the  lit- 


312  ARGUMENTATION. 

tie  beer  I  had,  and  my  cask  of  porter."  And,  gen- 
tlemen, what  did  the  villain  do?  While  he  was  dip- 
ping his  abandoned  tongue  in  perjury  and  in  blood, 
he  robbed  the  wretched  man  of  two  guineas.^ 
Where  is  he  now?  Do  you  wonder  he  is  afraid  of  5 
my  eye?  that  he  has  buried  himself  in  the  crowd? 
that  he  has  shrunk  into  the  whole  of  the  multitude, 
when  the  witness  endeavored  to  disentangle  him  and 
his  evidence  ?  Do  you  not  feel  that  he  was  appalled 
with  horror  by  that  more  piercing  and  penetrating  10 
eye  that  looks  upon  him,  and  upon  me,  and  upon  us 
all?  The  chords  of  his  heart  bore  testimony  by  its 
flight,  and  proved  that  he  fled  for  the  same.  But 
does  it  rest  there?  No.  Witness  upon  witness  ap- 
peared for  the  prisoner,  to  whom,  I  dare  say,  you  15 
will  give  that  credit  you  must  deny  to  O'Brien.  Jn 
the  presence  of  God  they  swore,  that  they  "  would 
not  believe  him  upon  his  oath,  in  the  smallest  mat- 
ter." Do  you  know  him,  gentlemen  of  the  jury? 
Are  you  acquainted  with  James  O'Brien?  If  you 20 
do,  let  him  come  forward  from  that  crowd  where  he 
has  hid  himself,  and  claim  you  by  a  look.  Have 
you  been  fellow-companions?  If  you  have  I  dare 
say  you  wiU  recognize  him.  Have  I  done  with  him 
yet?  No;  while  there  is  a  thread  of  his  villainy  to-  25 
gether,  I  will  tatter  it,  lest  you  should  be  caught 
with  it.  iDid  he  dare  to  say  to  the  solicitor  for  the 
Crown,  to  the  counsel  that  are  prosecuting  the 
prisoner,  that  "  there  is  some  one  witness  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  globe  that  will  say,  he  believes  I  am  not  30 
a  villain ;  but  I  am  a  man  that  deserves  some  credit 
on  my  oath  in  a  court  of  justice?  "     Did  he  venture 

'  Here  Curran's  fierce  facility  leads  him  into  a  delightful 
Irish  bull. 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  313 

to  call  one  human  being  to  that  fact?*  But  why 
did  they  not  venture  to  examine  the  prisoner's  wit- 
nesses, as  to  the  reasons  of  their  disbelief?  What, 
if  I  was  bold  enoug-h  to  say  to  any  of  you,  gentle- 
5  men,  that  I  did  not  think  you  deserved  credit  on 
your  oath,  would  not  the  first  question  you  would 
ask  be  the  reason  for  that  opinion  ?  Did  he  venture 
to  ask  that  question?  No.  I  think  the  trial  has 
been  fairly  and  humanely  carried  on.     Mrs.  Moore 

10  was  examined  ;  she  underwent  cross-examination — 
the  object  was  to  impeach  her  credit.  I  offered  to 
examine  to  her  character;  no — I  would  not  be  suf- 
fered to  do  it ;  they  were  right  in  the  point  of  law. 
Gentlemen,  let  me  ask  you  another  question ; — Is  the 

15  character  of  O'Brien  such,  that  you  think  he  did 
not  know  that  any  human  creature  was  to  attack  it? 
Did  you  not  see  him  coiling  himself  in  the  scaly  cir- 
cles of  his  perjury,  making  anticipated  battle  against 
the  attack,  that  he  knew  would  be  made,  and  spit- 

2®  ting  his  venom  against  the  man  that  might  have 
given  such  evidence  of  his  infamous  character  if  he 
had  dared  to  appear? 

Gentlemen,  do  you  feel  now  that  I  was  mali- 
ciously aspersing  the  character  of  O'Brien?     What 

25  language  is  strong  enough  to  describe  the  mixture 
of  swindling  and  imposition  which,  in  the  face  of 
justice,  this  wretch  has  been  guilty  of?  Taking  on 
himself  the  situation  of  one  of  the  King's  officers, 
to  rob  the  King's  subjects  of  the  King's  money;  but 

30  that  is  not  enough  for  him — in  the  vileness  and 
turpitude  of  his  character  he  afterwards  wants  to 
rob  them  of  their  lives  by  perjury.     Do  I  speak 

'  Failure  to  produce  evidence  is  strong  presumptive  argu* 
ment  that  it  does  not  exist. 


314  A  RG OMENTA  TIOM. 

truly  to  you,  gentlemen,  when  I  have  shown  you  the 
witness  in  his  real  colors — when  I  have  shown  you 
his  habitual  fellowship  with  baseness  and  fraud?  ^ 
He  gave  a  recipe  for  forging  money.  "  Why  did 
you  give  it  to  him?  "  "  He  was  an  inquisitive  man,  5 
and  I  gave  it  as  a  matter  of  course."  "  But  why  did 
you  do  it?  "  "  It  was  a  light,  easy  way  of  getting 
money — I  gave  it  as  a  humbug."  He  gave  a  recipe 
for  forging  the  coin  of  the  country,  because  it  was 
a  light,  easy  way  of  getting  money !  Has  it,  gen- 10 
tlemen,  ever  happened  to  you  in  the  ordinary  pas- 
sages of  life,  to  have  met  with  such  a  constellation 
of  atrocities  and  horrors,  and  that  in  a  single  man? 
What  do  you  say  to  Clarke?  Except  his  perjury, 
he  has  scarcely  ground  to  turn  on.  What  was  his  15 
cross-examination?  "Pray,  sir,  were  you  in  court 
yesterday?"  "No,  Sir,  I  was  not."  "Why?" 
"  Mr.  Kemmis  sent  me  word  not  to  come."  There 
happened  to  be  several  persons  who  saw  him  in 
court:  one  of  them  swore  it — the  rest  were  ready.  20 
Call  up  "  little  Skirmish  "  again.*  "  Pray,  Skir- 
mish, why  did  you  say  you  were  not  in  court 
yesterday,  when  you  were?"  "Why,  it  was  a 
little  bit  of  a  mistake,  not  being  a  lawyer.  It 
being  a  matter  of  law,  I  was  mistaken."  "  How  25 
did  it  happen  you  were  mistaken  ?  "  "I  was  puz- 
zled by  the  hard  questions  that  Mr.  M'Nally  asked 
me."  What  was  the  hard  question  he  was  asked? 
"  Were  you  In  court  yesterday?  "     "  No ;  Mr.  Kem- 

'  Here  follows  in  review  a  sort  of  "  stichomathia."  or  con-  30 
tinual  repartee,  of  contradictory  evidence.     The  real  nature 
of  evidence  is  often  shown  by  such  foreshortening  into 
narrow  limits. 

♦  "  Little  Skirmish,"  a  character  in  "  The  Deserter." 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  3^5 

mis  sent  me  word  I  need  not  come?"  Can  you, 
gentlemen  of  the  jury,  suppose  that  any  simple,  well- 
meaning  man  would  commit  such  a  gross  and  abom- 
inable perjury?  I  do  not  think  he  is  a  credible 
5  man ;  that  is,  that  he  swore  truer  than  Lord  Portar- 
lington  did,  because  his  lordship  stands  on  a  single 
testimony ;  he  may  be  true,  because  he  has  sworn  on 
both  sides ;  he  has  sworn  positively  that  he  was  not 
in  the  court  yesterday ;  and  he  has  sworn  positively 

lohe  was!  so  that,  wherever  the  truth  is,  he  is  found 
in  it;  let  the  ground  be  clean  or  dirty,  he  is  in  the 
midst  of  it.  There  is  no  person  but  deserves  some 
little  degree  of  credit ;  if  the  soul  was  as  black  as 
night,  it  would  burn  to  something  in  hell.     But  let 

15  me  not  appear  to  avoid  the  question  by  any  seeming 
levity  upon  it.  O'Brien  stands  blackened  by  the 
unimpeached  proofs  of  five  positive  perjuries.  If  he 
was  indicted  on  any  one  of  them,  he  could  not  ap- 
pear to  give  evidence  in  a  court  of  justice ;  and  I  do 

20  call  upon  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  to  refuse  him 
on  his  oath  that  credit  which  never  ought  to  be 
squandered  on  the  evidence  of  an  abandoned  and 
self-convicted  perjurer. 

The  charge  is  not  merely  against  the  prisoner  at 

25  the  bar ;  it  takes  in  the  entire  character  of  your  coun- 
try. It  is  the  first  question  of  the  kind  for  ages 
brought  forward  in  this  nation  to  public  view, 
after  an  expiration  of  years.  It  is  the  great 
experiment     of     the     informers     of     Ireland,     to 

30  see  with  what  success  they  may  make  this 
traffic  of  human  blood.  Fifteen  men  are  now 
in  jail,  depending  on  the  fate  of  the  unfor- 
tunate prisoner,  and  on  the  same  blasted  and 
perjured   evidence  of  O'Brien,     I   have  stated  at 


3 1 6  ARG  UMENTA  TION. 

large  the  case,  and  the  situation  of  my  chent ;  I  make 
no  apology  for  wasting  your  time;  I  regret  I  have 
not  been  more  able  to  do  my  duty ;  it  would  insult 
you  if  I  were  to  express  any  such  feeling  to  you.  I 
have  only  to  apologize  to  my  client  for  delaying  his  5 
acquittal.  I  have  blackened  the  character  of 
O'Brien  in  every  point  of  view ;  and,  though  he  an- 
ticipated the  attack  that  would  be  made  on  it,  yet 
he  could  not  procure  one  human-  being  even  base 
enough  to  depose  that  he  was  to  be  believed  on  his  lo 
oath. 

The  character  of  the  prisoner  has  been  given. 
^  Am  I  warranted  in  saying,  that  I  am  now  defend- 
ing an  innocent  and  unfortunate  fellow-subject,  on 
the  grounds  of  eternal  justice  and  immutable  law?i5 
and  on  that  eternal  law  I  do  call  upon  you  to  acquit 
my  client.  I  call  upon  you  for  your  justice!  Great 
is  the  reward,  and  sweet  is  the  recollection  in  the 
hour  of  trial,  and  in  the  day  of  dissolution,  when 
casualties  of  life  are  pressing  close  upon  your  heart,  20 
and  when,  in  the  agonies  of  death,  you  look  back  to 
the  justifiable  and  honorable  transactions  of  your 
life.  At  the  awful  foot  of  eternal  justice  I  do, 
therefore,  invite  you  to  acquit  my  client;  and  may 
God,  of  his  infinite  mercy,  grant  you  that  great  com-  25 
pensation  which  is  a  reward  more  lasting  than  that 
perishable  crown  we  read  of,  which  the  ancients 
gave  to  him  who  saved  the  life  of  a  fellow-citizen  in 
battle.  In  the  name  of  public  justice,  I  do  im- 
plore you  to  interpose  between  the  perjurer  and  his  30 
intended  victim ;  and,  if  ever  you  are  assailed  by  the 
villainy  of  an  informer,  may  you  find  refuge  in  the 

'  Now  follows  an  almost  homiletical  appeal  to  the  sense 
of  religious  fear,  of  future  punishment  and  reward. 


DEFENSE   OF  PATRICK  FINNEY.  317 

recollection  of  that  example,  which,  when  jurors, 
you  set  to  those  that  might  be  called  to  pass  judg- 
ment upon  your  lives;  to  repel  at  the  human  tri- 
bunal the  intended  effects  of  hireling  perjury,  and 
5  premeditated  murder!  If  it  should  be  the  fate  of 
any  of  you  to  count  the  tedious  moments  of  cap- 
tivity, in  sorrow  and  in  pain,  pining  in  the  damps 
and  gloom  of  a  dungeon,  recollect  there  is  another 
more  awful  tribunal  than  any  on  earth,  which  we 

10  must  all  approach,  and  before  which  the  best  of  us 
will  have  occasion  to  look  back  to  what  little  good 
he  has  done  on  this  side  of  the  grave ;  I  do  pray,  that 
Eternal  Justice  may  record  the  deed  you  have  done, 
and  give  you  the  full  benefit  of  your  claims  to  an 

15  eternal  reward,  a  requital  in  mercy  upon  your 
souls ! 

After  a  reply  from  the  Solicitor-General  (Toler),  Justice 
Chamberlain  and  Baron  Smith  charged,  inclining  to  the 
prisoner,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  jury  returned  a 

20  verdict  of  Not  Gicilty.  On  the  igth,  fifteen  other  persons, 
who  had  been  indicted  on  the  same  charge,  were  formally 
tried  and  acquitted,  and,  on  taking  the  oath  of  allegiance, 
and  filing  recognizances  for  good  behavior,  were  dis- 
charged.    So  ended  the  first  of  the  ninety-eight  trials. — 

25  Whittier. 

SS.-mil  misi  JBonum. 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

Almost  the  last  words  which  Sir  Walter  spoke  to 

Lockhart,  his  biographer,  were,  "  Be  a  good  man, 

my  dear !  "  and  with  the  last  flicker  of  breath  on  his 

dying  lips,  he  sighed  a  farewell  to  his  family,  and 

30  passed  away  blessing  them. 


3 1 8  ARC  UMENTA  TION. 

Two  men,  famous,  admired,  beloved,  have  just 
left  us,  the  Goldsmith  and  the  Gibbon  of  our  time.* 
Ere  a  few  weeks  are  over,  many  a  critic's  pen  will 
be  at  work,  reviewing  their  lives,  and  passing  judg- 
ment on  their  works.  This  is  no  review,  or  history,  5 
or  criticism :  only  a  word  in  testimony  of  respect  and 
regard  from  a  man  of  letters,  who  owes  to  his  own 
professional  labor  the  honor  of  becoming  acquainted 
with  these  two  eminent  literary  men.  One  was  the 
first  ambassador  whom  the  New  World  of  Letters  10 
sent  to  the  Old.  He  was  born  almost  with  the  re- 
public; the  pater  patrice  had  laid  his  hand  on  the 
child's  head.  He  bore  Washington's  name :  he  came 
amongst  us  bringing  the  kindest  sympathy,  the  most 
artless,  smiling  good-will.  His  new  country  (which  15 
some  people  here  might  be  disposed  to  regard 
rather  superciliously)  could  send  us,  as  he  showed 
in  his  own  person,  a  gentleman,  who,  though  him- 
self born  in  no  very  high  sphere,  was  most  finished, 
polished,  easy,  witty,  quiet ;  and  socially,  the  equal  20 
of  the  most  refined  Europeans.  If  Irving's  welcome 
in  England  was  a  kind  one,  was  it  not  also  grate- 
fully remembered?  If  he  ate  our  salt,  did  he  not 
pay  us  with  a  thankful  heart?  Who  can  calculate 
the  amount  of  friendliness  and  good  feeling  for  our  25 
country  which  this  writer's  generous  and  untiring 
regard  for  us  disseminated  in  his  own?  His  books 
are  read  by  millions  f  of  his  countrymen,  whom  he 
has  taught  to  love  England,  and  why  to  love  her. 
It  would  have  been  easy  to  speak  otherwise  than  he  30 

*  Washington  Irving  died.  November  28,  1859;  Lord 
Macaulay  died,  December  28,  1859. 

f  See  his  "Life"  in  the  most  remarkable  "  Dictionary  of 
Authors,"  published  lately  at  Philadelphia,  by  Mr.  Allibone, 


NIL   NISI  BONUM.  319 

did :  to  inflame  national  rancors,  which,  at  the  time 
when  he  first  became  known  as  a  public  writer,  war 
had  just  renewed:  to  cry  down  the  old  civilization 
at  the  expense  of  the  new:  to  point  out  our  faults, 
5  arrogance,  shortcomings,  and  give  the  republic  to 
infer  how  much  she  was  the  parent  state's  superior. 
There  are  writers  enough  in  the  United  States,  hon- 
est and  otherwise,  who  preach  that  kind  of  doctrine. 
But  the  good  Irving,  the  peaceful,  the  friendly,  had 

10  no  place  for  bitterness  in  his  heart,  and  no  scheme 
but  kindness.  Received  in  England  with  extraor- 
dinary tenderness  and  friendship  (Scott,  Southey, 
Byron,  a  hundred  others  have  borne  witness  to  their 
liking  for  him),  he  was  a  messenger  of  good-will 

15  and  peace  between  his  country  and  ours.  "  See, 
friends !  "  he  seems  to  say,  "  these  English  are  not 
so  wicked,  rapacious,  callous,  proud,  as  you  have 
been  taught  to  believe  them.  I  went  amongst  them 
a  humble  man ;  won  my  way  by  my  pen ;  and,  when 

20  known,  found  every  hand  held  out  to  me  with  kind- 
liness and  welcome.  Scott  is  a  great  man,  you  ac- 
knowledge. Did  not  Scott's  King  of  England  give 
a  gold  medal  to  him,  and  another  to  me,  your  coun- 
tryman, and  a  stranger  ?  " 

25  Tradition  in  the  United  States  still  fondly  retains 
the  history  of  the  feasts  and  rejoicings  which 
awaited  Irving  on  his  return  to  his  native  country 
from  Europe.  He  had  a  national  welcome;  he 
stammered  in  his  speeches,  hid  himself  in  confusion, 

30  and  the  people  loved  him  all  the  better.  He  had 
worthily  represented  America  in  Europe.     In  that 

r  young  community  a  man  who  brings  home  with  him 
abundant  European  testimonials  is  still  treated  with 

5    respect  (I  have  found  American  writers,  of  wide- 


320  ARGUMENTATION. 

world  reputation,  strangely  solicitous  about  the 
opinions  of  quite  obscure  British  critics,  and  elated 
or  depressed  by  their  judgments);  and  Irving  went 
home  medaled  by  the  King,  diplomatized  by  the 
University,  crowned  and  honored  and  admired.  He  5 
had  not  in  any  way  intrigued  for  his  honors,  he  had 
fairly  won  them ;  and,  in  Irving's  instance,  as  in 
others,  the  old  country  was  glad  and  eager  to  pay 
them. 

In  America  the  love  and  regard  for  Irving  was  a  ic 
national    sentiment.     Party    wars    are    perpetually 
raging  there,  and  are  carried  on  by  the  press  with  a 
rancor  and  fierceness  against  individuals  which  ex- 
ceed British,  almost  Irish,  virulence.     It  seemed  to 
me,  during  a  year's  travel  in  the  country,  as  if  no  15 
one  ever  aimed  a  blow  at  Irving.     All  men  held  their 
hand  from  that  harmless,  friendly  peacemaker.     I 
had  the  good   fortune  to  see  him  at  New  York, 
Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  and  Washington,*  and  re- 
marked how  in  every  place  he  was  honored  and  wel-  20 
come.     Every  large  city  has  its  "  Irving  House." 
The  country  takes  pride  in  the  fame  of  its  men  of 
letters.     The  gate  of  his  own  charming  little  do- 
main on  the  beautiful  Hudson  River  was  forever 
swinging  before  visitors   who   came   to   him.     He  25 
shut  out  no  one.f     I  had  seen  many  pictures  of  his 

*  At  Washington,  Mr.  Irving  came  to  a  lecture  given  by 
the  writer,  which  Mr,  Fillmore  and  General  Pierce,  the 
President  and  Presiuent-Elect,  were  also  kind  enough  to 
attend  together.  "Two  Kings  of  Brentford  smelling  at  30 
one  rose,"  says  Irving,  looking  up  with  his  good-humored 
smile. 

f  Mr.  Irving  described  to  me,  with  that  humor  and  good- 
humor  which  he  always  kept,  how,  amongst  other  visitors,  «i. 


NIL    NISI  BO  NUM.  32 1 

house,  and  read  descriptions  of  it,  in  both  of  which 
it  was  treated  with  a  not  unusual  American  exag- 
geration. It  was  but  a  pretty  httle  cabin  of  a  place ; 
the  gentleman  of  the  press  who  took  notes  of  the 
5  place,  whilst  his  kind  old  host  was  sleeping,  might 
have  visited  the  whole  house  in  a  couple  of  minutes. 
And  how  came  it  that  this  house  was  so  small, 
when  Mr.  Irving's  books  were  sold  by  hundreds  of 
thousands,    nay,'  millions,    when    his    profits    were 

10  known  to  be  large,  and  the  habits  of  life  of  the  good 
old  bachelor  were  notoriously  modest  and  simple? 
He  had  loved  once  in  his  life.  The  lady  he  loved 
died ;  and  he,  whom  all  the  world  loved,  never 
sought  to  replace  her.     I  can't  say  how  much  the 

15  thought  of  that  fidelity  has  touched  me.  Does  not 
the  very  cheerfulness  of  his  after  life  add  to  the 
pathos  of  that  untold  story?  To  grieve  always  was 
not  in  his  nature ;  or,  when  he  had  his  sorrow,  to 
bring  all  the  world  in  to  condole  with  him  and  be- 

20  moan  it.  Deep  and  quiet  he  lays  the  love  of  his 
heart,  and  buries  it ;  and  grass  and  flowers  grow 
over  the  scarred  ground  in  due  time. 

Irving  had  such  a  small  house  and  such  narrow 
rooms,  because  there  was  a  great  number  of  people 

25  to  occupy  them.     He  could  only  afford  to  keep  one 

member  of  the  British  press  who  had  carried  his  distin- 
guished pen  to  America  (where  he  employed  it  in  vilifying 
his  own  country)  came  to  Sunnyside,  introduced  himself 
to  Irving,  partook  of  his  wine  and  luncheon,  and  in  two 
30  days  described  Mr.  Irving,  his  house,  his  nieces,  his  meal, 
and  his  manner  of  dozing  afterwards,  in  a  New  York  paper. 
On  another  occasion,  Irving  said,  laughing,  "  Two  persons 
came  to  me,  and  one  held  me  in  conversation  whilst  the 
other  miscreant  took  my  portrait  !  " 


32  2  ARGUMEN  TA  TION. 

old  horse  (which,  lazy  and  aged  as  it  was,  managed 
once  or  twice  to  run  away  with  that  careless  old 
horseman).  He  could  only  afford  to  give  plain 
sherry  to  that  amiable  British  paragraph-monger 
from  New  York,  who  saw  the  patriarch  asleep  over  5 
his  modest,  blameless  cup,  and  fetched  the  public 
into  his  private  chamber  to  look  at  him.  Irving 
could  only  live  very  modestly,  because  the  wifeless, 
childless  man  had  a  number  of  children  to  whom  he 
was  as  a  father.  He  had  as  many  as  nine  nieces,  1 10 
am  told — I  saw  two  of  these  ladies  at  his  house — 
with  all  of  whom  the  dear  old  man  had  shared  the 
produce  of  his  labor  and  genius. 

"  Be  a  good  man,  my  dear."  One  can't  but  think 
of  these  last  words  of  the  veteran  Chief  of  Letters,  15 
who  had  tasted  and  tested  the  value  of  worldly  suc- 
cess, admiration,  prosperity.  Was  Irving  not  good, 
and,  of  his  works,  was  not  his  life  the  best  part? 
In  his  family,  gentle,  generous,  good-humored, 
affectionate,  self-denying ;  in  society,  a  delightful  20 
example  of  complete  gentlemanhood ;  quite  un- 
spoiled by  prosperity ;  never  obsequious  to  the  great 
(or,  worse  still,  to  the  base  and  mean,  as  some  pub- 
lic men  are  forced  to  be  in  his  and  other  countries)  ; 
eager  to  acknowledge  every  contemporary's  merit ;  25 
always  kind  and  affable  to  the  young  members  of  his 
calling;  in  his  professional  bargains  and  mercantile 
dealings  delicately  honest  and  grateful;  one  of  the 
most  charming  masters  of  our  lighter  language ;  the 
constant  friend  to  us  and  our  nation ;  to  men  of  let-  3a 
ters  doubly  dear,  not  for  his  wit  and  genius  merely, 
but  as  an  exemplar  of  goodness,  probity,  and  pure 
life : — I  don't  know  what  sort  of  testimonial  will 
be  raised  to  him  in  his  own  country,  where  gener- 


NIL  NISI  BONUM.  323 

ous  and  enthusiastic  acknowledgment  of  American 
merit  is  never  wanting;  but  Irving  was  in  our  serv- 
ice as  well  as  theirs ;  and  as  they  have  placed  a  stone 
at  Greenwich  yonder  in  memory  of  that  gallant 
5  young  Bellot,  who  shared  the  perils  and  fate  of 
some  of  our  Arctic  seamen,  I  would  like  to  hear  of 
some  memorial  raised  by  English  writers  and 
friends  of  letters  in  affectionate  remembrance  of  the 
dear  and  good  Washington  Irving. 

10  As  for  the  other  writer,  whose  departure  many 
friends,  some  few  most  dearly  loved  relatives,  and 
multitudes  of  admiring  readers  deplore,  our  repub- 
lic has  already  decreed  his  statue,  and  he  must  have 
known  that  he  had  earned  this  posthumous  honor. 

IS  He  is  not  a  poet  and  man  of  letters  merely,  but  citi- 
zen, statesman,  a  great  British  worthy.  Almost 
from  the  first  moment  when  he  appears,  amongst 
boys,  amongst  college  students,  amongst  men,  he 
is  marked,  and  takes  rank  as  a  great  Englishman. 

20 All  sorts  of  successes  are  easy  to  him:  as  a  lad  he 
goes  down  into  the  arena  with  others,  and  wins  all 
the  prizes  to  which  he  has  a  mind.  A  place  in  the 
senate  is  straightway  offered  to  the  young  man. 
He  takes  his  seat  there ;  he  speaks,  when  so  minded, 

25  without  party  anger  or  intrigue,  but  not  without 
party  faith  and  a  sort  of  heroic  enthusiasm  for  his 
cause.  Still  he  is  poet  and  philosopher  even  more 
than  orator.  That  he  may  have  leisure  and  means 
to  pursue  his  darling  studies,  he  absents  himselt  lor 

30  a  while,  and  accepts  a  richly  remunerative  post  in 
the  East.  As  learned  a  man  may  live  in  a  cottage 
or  a  college  common-room ;  but  it  always  seemed  to 
me  that  ample  means  and  recognized  rank  were 
Macaulay's  as  of  right.    Years  ago  there  was  a 


324  ARG  UMENTA  TION. 

wretched  outcry  raised  because  Mr.  Macaulay  dated 
a  letter  from  Windsor  Castle,  where  he  was  staying. 
Immortal  gods!  Was  this  man  not  a  fit  guest  for 
any  palace  in  the  world  ?  or  a  fit  companion  for  any 
man  or  woman  in  it  ?  I  dare  say,  after  Austerlitz,  5 
the  old  K.  K.  court  officials  and  footmen  sneered  at 
Napoleon  for  dating  from  Schonbrunn.  But  that 
miserable  "  Windsor  Castle  "  outcry  is  an  echo  out 
of  fast-retreating  old-world  remembrances.  The 
place  of  such  a  natural  chief  was  amongst  the  first  lo 
of  the  land ;  and  that  country  is  best,  according  to 
our  British  notion  at  least,  where  the  man  of  emi- 
nence has  the  best  chance  of  investing  his  genius 
and  intellect. 

If  a  company  of  giants  were  got  together,  very  15 
dikely  one  or  two  of  the  mere  six-feet-six  people 
might  be  angry  at  the  incontestable  superiority  of 
the  very  tallest  of  the  party;  and  so  I  have  heard 
some  London  wits,  rather  peevish  at  Macaulay's  su- 
periority, complain  that  he  occupied  too  much  of  the  20 
talk,  and  so  forth.     Now  that  wonderful  tongue  is 
to  speak  no  more,  will  not  many  a  man  grieve  that 
he  no  longer  has  the  chance  to  listen?     To  remem- 
ber the  talk  is  to  wonder:  to  think  not  only  of  the 
treasures  he  had  in  his  memory,  but  of  the  trifles  he  25 
had   stored   there,   and   could   produce   with   equal 
readiness.     Almost  on  the  last  day  I  had  the  for- 
tune to  see  him,  a  conversation  happened  suddenly 
to  spring  up  about  senior  wranglers,  and  what  they 
had  done  in  after  life.     To  the  almost  terror  of  the  30 
persons  present,  Macaulay  began  with  the  senior 
wrangler  of  1801-2-3-4,  and  so  on,  giving  the  name 
of  each,  and  relating  his  subsequent  career  and  rise. 
Every  man  who  has  known  him  has  his  story  re- 


NIL   NISI  BONUM.  325 

garding  that  astonishing  memory.  It  may  be  that 
he  was  not  ill  pleased  that  you  should  recognize  it; 
but  to  those  prodigious  intellectual  feats,  which 
were  so  easy  to  him,  who  would  grudge  his  trib- 
5  ute  of  homage?  His  talk  was,  in  a  word,  admir- 
able, and  we  admired  it.         '^ 

Of  the  notices  which  have  appeared  regarding 
Lord  Macaulay,  up  to  the  day  when  the  present  lines 
are  written  (the  9th  of  January),  the  reader  should 

10  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  looking  especially 
at  two.  It  is  a  good  sign  of  the  times  when  such 
articles  as  these  (I  mean  the  articles  in  The  Times 
and  Saturday  Review)  appear  in  our  public  prints 
about  our  public  men.     They  educate  us,  as  it  were, 

15  to  admire  rightly.  An  uninstructed  person  in  a 
museum  or  at  a  concert  may  pass  by  without  recog- 
nizing a  picture  or  a  passage  of  music,  which  the 
connoisseur  by  his  side  may  show  him  is  a  master- 
piece of  harmony,  or  a  wonder  of  artistic  skill.    After 

20  reading  these  papers  you  like  and  respect  more 
the  person  you  have  admired  so  much  already.  And 
so  with  regard  to  Macaulay's  style  there  may  be 
faults  of  course — what  critic  can't  point  them  out? 
But  for  the  nonce  we  are  not  talking  about  faults : 

25  we  want  to  say  nil  nisi  bonum.  Well — take  at  haz- 
ard any  three  pages  of  the  "  Essays  "  or  "  His- 
tory";— and,  glimmering  below  the  stream  of  the 
narrative,  as  it  were,  you,  an  average  reader,  see 
one,  two,  three,  a  half-score  of  allusions  to  other  his- 

30  toric  facts,  characters,  literature,  poetry,  with  which 
you  are  acquainted.  Why  is  this  epithet  used? 
Whence  is  that  simile  drawn?  How  does  he  man- 
age, in  two  or  three  words,  to  paint  an  individual, 
or  to  indicate  a  landscape?     Your  neighbor,  who 


i26  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

has  his  reading,  and  his  Httle  stock  of  Hterature 
stowed  away  in  his  mind,  shall  detect  more  points, 
allusions,  happy  touches,  indicating  not  only  the 
prodigious  memory  and  vast  learning  of  this  master, 
but  the  wonderful  industry,  the  honest,  humble  pre-  5 
vious  toil  of  this  great  scholar.  He  reads  twenty 
books  tO'  write  a  sentence;  he  travels  a  hundred 
miles  to  make  a  line  of  description. 

Many  Londoners — not  all — have  seen  the  British 
Museum  Library.  I  speak  a  cceur  ouvert  and  pray  lo 
the  kindly  reader  to  bear  with  me.  I  have  seen  all 
sorts  of  domes  of  Peters  and  Pauls,  Sophia,  Pan- 
theon,— what  not? — and  have  been  struck  by  none 
of  them  so  much  as  by  that  catholic  dome  in 
Bloomsbury,  under  which  our  million  volumes  are  15 
housed.  What  peace,  what  love,  what  truth  what 
beauty,  what  happiness  for  all,  what  generous  -iiid- 
ness  for  you  and  me,  are  here  spread  out!  It  'cems 
to  me  one  cannot  sit  down  in  that  place  without  a 
heart  full  of  grateful  reverence.  I  own  to  have  said  20 
my  grace  at  the  table,  and  to  have  thanked  Heaven 
for  this  my  English  birthright,  freely  to  partake  of 
these  bountiful  books,  and  to  speak  the  truth  I  find 
there.  Under  the  dome  which  held  Macaulay's 
brain,  and  from  which  his  solemn  eyes  looked  out  25 
on  the  world  but  a  fortnight  since,  what  a  vast,  bril- 
liant, and  wonderful  store  of  learning  was  ranged ! 
what  strange  lore  would  he  not  fetch  for  you  at  your 
bidding!  A  volume  of  law,  or  history,  a  book  of 
poetry  familiar  or  forgotten  (except  by  himself,  who  3° 
forgot  nothing),  a  novel  ever  so  old,  and  he  had  it 
at  hand.  I  spoke  to  him  once  about  "  Clarissa." 
"Not  read  'Clarissa!'"  he  cried  out.  "If  you 
have  once  thoroughly  entered  on  '  Clarissa  *  andl 


NIL   NISI  BO  NUM.  327 

are  infected  by  it,  you  can't  leave  it.  When  I 
was  in  India  I  passed  one  hot  season  at  the  hills,  and 
there  were  the  Governor-General,  and  the  Secretary 
of  Government,  and  the  Commander  in  Chief,  and 
5  their  wives.  I  had  '  Clarissa  '  with  me :  and,  as  soon 
as  they  began  to  read,  the  whole  station  was  in  a 
passion  of  excitement  about  Miss  Harlowe  and  her 
misfortunes,  and  her  scoundrelly  Lovelace!  The 
Governor's  wife  seized  the  book,  and  the  Secretary 

10  waited  for  it,  and  the  Chief  Justice  could  not  read 
it  for  tears!  "  He  acted  the  whole  scene:  he  paced 
up  and  down  the  "  Athenaeum  "  library :  I  dare  say 
he  could  have  spoken  pages  of  the  book — of  that 
book,  and  of  what  countless  piles  of  others! 

15  In  this  little  paper  let  us  keep  to  the  text  of  nil 
nisi  honum.  One  paper  I  have  read  regarding  Lord 
Macaulay  says  **  he  had  no  heart."  Why,  a  man's 
books  may  not  always  speak  the  truth,  but  they 
speak  his  mind  in  spite  of  himself:  and  it  seems  to 

20  me  this  man's  heart  is  beating  through  every  page 
he  penned.  He  is  always  in  a  storm  of  revolt  and 
indignation  against  wrong,  craft,  tyranny.  How 
he  cheers  heroic  resistance ;  how  he  backs  and  ap- 
plauds freedom  struggling  for  its  own ;  how  he  hates 

25  scoundrels,  ever  so  victorious  and  successful ;  how 
he  recognizes  genius,  though  selfish  villains  possess 
it!  The  critic  who  says  Macaulay  had  no  heart, 
might  say  that  Johnson  had  none:  and  two  men 
more  generous,  and  more  loving,  and  more  hating, 

30  and  more  partial,  and  more  noble,  do  not  live  in  our 
history.  Those  who  knew  Lord  Macaulay  knew 
how  admirably  tender  and  generous,*  and  affection- 

*  Since  the  above  was  written,  I  have  been  informed  that 
it  has  been  found,  on  examining  Lord  Macaulay's  papers, 


328  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

ate  he  was.  It  was  not  his  business  to  bring  his 
family  before  the  theater  footlights,  and  call  for 
bouquets  from  the  gallery  as  he  wept  over  them. 

If  any  young  man  of  letters  reads  this  little  ser- 
mon— and  to  him,  indeed,  it  is  addressed — I  would  5 
say  to  him,  "  Bear  Scott's  words  in  your  mind,  and 
*  he  good,  my  dear.' "  Here  are  two  literary  men 
gone  to  their  account,  and,  laus  Deo,  as  far  as  we 
know,  it  is  fair,  and  open,  and  clean.  Here  is  no 
need  of  apologies  for  shortcomings,  or  explanations  10 
of  vices  which  would  have  been  virtues  but  for  un- 
avoidable, &c.  Here  are  two  examples  of  men  most 
differently  gifted:  each  pursuing  his  calling;  each 
speaking  his  truth  as  God  bade  him;  each  honest 
in  his  life;  just  and  irreproachable  in  his  dealings;  15 
dear  to  his  friends ;  honored  by  his  country ;  beloved 
at  his  fireside.  It  has  been  the  fortunate  lot  of  both 
to  give  incalculable  happiness  and  delight  to  the 
world,  which  thanks  them  in  return  with  an  im- 
mense kindliness,  respect,  affection.  It  may  not  be  20 
our  chance,  brother  scribe,  to  be  endowed  with  such 
merit,  or  rewarded  with  such  fame.  But  the  re- 
wards of  these  men  are  rewards  paid  to  our  service. 
We  may  not  win  the  baton  or  epaulets ;  but  God  give 
us  strength  to  guard  the  honor  of  the  flag!  25 

— Roundabout  Papers. 

Notes. — This  selection  and  the  following  are  specimens 
of  indirect  persuasion.  The  method  of  Thackeray's  essay- 
is  the  use  of  informal  narrative,  biographical  in  this 
case,  and  informal  character-drawing,  to  lend  persuasive 
force  to   a  general  principle  of  conduct.     Doubtless  the  3° 

that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  giving  away  more  than  a  fourth 
part  of  his  annual  income. 


THE  END  OF  GEORGE  III.  32 g 

purpose  of  Thackeray  was  also  to  pay  a  tribute  to  the  two 
noble  friends  he  had  lost ;  but  he  fairly  succeeds  in  util- 
izing them  as  a  persuasive  power.  It  is  the  method  of 
the  skillful  funeral  orator,  the  method  of  Bossuet  and  of 
5  Lincoln. 


56.— ^be  lEnD  of  (Beorgc  irilir. 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

But  the  pretty  Amelia  was  his  darHng;  and  the 
little  maiden,  prattling  and  smiling  in  the  fond  arms 
of  that  old  father,  is  a  sweet  image  to  look  on. 
There  is  a  family  picture  in  Burney,  which  a  man 

10  must  be  hard-hearted  not  to  like.  She  describes  an 
after-dinner  walk  of  the  royal  family  at  Windsor: 
— "  It  was  really  a  mighty  pretty  procession," 
she  says.  "  The  little  Princess,  just  turned  of 
three    years    old,    in    a    robe-coat    covered    with 

15  fine  muslin,  a  dressed  close  cap,  white  gloves, 
and  fan,  walked  on  alone  and  first,  highly 
delighted  with  the  parade,  and  turning  from 
side  to  side  to  see  everybody  as  she  passed; 
for  all  the  terraces   stand   up   against   the   walls, 

20  to  make  a  clear  passage  for  the  royal  family  the 
moment  they  come  in  sight.  Then  followed  the 
King  and  Queen,  no  less  delighted  with  the  joy  of 
their  little  darling.  The  Princess  Royal  leaning  on 
Lady  Elizabeth  Waldegrave,  the  Princess  Augusta 

25  holding  by  the  Duchess  of  Ancaster,  the  Princess 
Elizabeth  led  by  Lady  Charlotte  Bertie,  followed. 
Office  here  takes  place  of  rank,"  says  Burney, — to 
explain  how  it  was  that  Lady  E.  Waldegrave,  as 
lady  of  the  bedchamber,  walked  before  a  duchess; 

30 — "  General  Bude,  and  the  Duke  of  Montague,  and 


330  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

Major  Price  as  equerry,  brought  up  the  rear  of  the 
procession."  One  sees  it;  the  band  playing-  its  old 
music,  the  sun  shining  on  the  happy,  loyal  crowd; 
and  lighting  the  ancient  battlements,  the  rich  elms, 
the  purple  landscape,  and  bright  greensward;  the  5 
royal  standard  drooping  from  the  great  tower  yon- 
der ;  as  old  George  passes,  followed  by  his  race,  pre- 
ceded by  the  charming  infant,  who  caresses  the 
crowd  with  her  innocent  smiles. 

"  On  sight  of  Mrs.  Delany,  the  King  instantly  10 
stopped  to  speak  to  her;  the  Queen,  of  course,  and 
the  little  Princess,  and  all  the  rest,  stood  still.  They 
talked  a  good  while  with  the  sweet  old  lady,  during 
which  time  the  King  once  or  twice  addressed  him- 
self to  me.  I  caught  the  Queen's  eye,  and  saw  in  it  15 
a  little  surprise,  but  by  no  means  any  displeasure, 
to  see  me  of  the  party.  The  little  Princess  went  up 
to  Mrs.  Delany,  of  whom  she  is  very  fond,  and  be- 
haved like  a  little  angel  to  her.  She  then,  with  a 
look  of  inquiry  and  recollection,  came  behind  Mrs.  20 
Delany  to  look  at  me.  *  I  am  afraid,'  said  I,  in  a 
whisper,  and  stooping  down,  '  your  Royal  High- 
ness does  not  remember  me?  '  Her  answer  was  an 
arch  little  smile,  and  a  nearer  approach,  with  her  lips 
pouted  out  to  kiss  me."  25 

The  Princess  wrote  verses  herself,  and  there  are 
some  pretty  plaintive  lines  attributed  to  her,  which 
are  more  touching  than  better  poetry: — 

♦'  Unthinking,  idle,  wild,  and  young, 
I  laughed,  and  danced,  and  talked,  and  sung ;     30 
And,  proud  of  health,  of  freedom  vain, 
Dreamed  not  of  sorrow,  care,  or  pain  ; 
Concluding,  in  those  hours  of  glee, 
That  all  the  world  was  made  for  me. 


THE  END   OF  GEORGE  III.  33? 

*•  But  when  the  hour  of  trial  came. 
When  sickness  shook  this  trembling  frame, 
When  folly's  gay  pursuits  were  o'er, 
And  I  could  sing  and  dance  no  more, 
5  It  then  occurred,  how  sad  'twould  be, 

Were  this  world  only  made  for  me." 

The  poor  soul  quitted  it — and  ere  yet  she  was 
dead  the  agonized  father  was  in  such  a  state,  that 
the  officers  round  about  him  were  obliged  to  set 

lo  watchers  over  him,  and  from  November,  1810, 
George  III.  ceased  to  reign.  All  the  world  knows 
the  story  of  his  malady :  all  history  presents  no  sad- 
der figure  than  that  of  the  old  man,  blind  and  de- 
prived of  reason,  wandering  through  the  rooms  of 

15  his  palace,  addressing  imaginary  parliaments,  re- 
viewing fancied  troops,  holding  ghostly  courts.  I 
have  seen  his  picture  as  it  was  taken  at  this  time, 
hanging  in  the  apartment  of  his  daughter,  the  Land- 
gravine  of    Hesse  Hombourg — amidst    books    and 

20  Windsor  furniture,  and  a  hundred  fond  reminis- 
cences of  her  English  home.  The  poor  old  father  is 
represented  in  a  purple  gown,  his  snowy  beard  fall- 
ing over  his  breast — the  star  of  his  famous  Order 
still  idly  shining  on  it.     He  was  not  only  sightless : 

25  he  became  utterly  deaf.  All  light,  all  reason,  all 
sound  of  human  voices,  all  the  pleasures  of  this 
world  of  God,  were  taken  from  him.  Some  slight 
lucid  moments  he  had ;  in  one  of  which,  the  Queen, 
desiring  to  see  him,  entered  the  room,  and  found 

30  him  singing  a  hymn,  and  accompanying  himself  at 
the  harpsichord.  When  he  had  finished,  he  knelt 
down  and  prayed  aloud  for  her,  and  then  for  his 
family,  and  then  for  the  nation,  concluding  with  a 
prayer  for  himself,  that  it  might  please  God  to  avert 


332  ARGUMENTA  TION. 

his  heavy  calamity  from  him,  but  if  not,  to  give  him 
resignation  to  submit.  He  then  burst  into  tears, 
and  his  reason  again  fled. 

What  preacher  need  morahze  on  this  story;  what 
words  save  the  simplest  are  requisite  to  tell  it?     It  5 
is  too  terrible  for  tears.     The  thought  of  such  a  mis- 
ery smites  me  down  in  submission  before  the  Ruler 
of  kings  and  men,  the  Monarch  Supreme  over  em- 
pires and  republics,  the  inscrutable  Dispenser  of  life, 
death,  happiness,  victory.     "  O  brothers,"  I  said  to  lo 
those  who  heard  me  first  in  America — "  O  brothers! 
speaking  the  same  dear  mother  tongue — O  com- 
rades !  enemies  no  more,  let  us  take  a  mournful  hand 
together  as  we  stand  by  this  royal  corpse,  and  call 
a  truce  to  battle !     Low  he  lies  to  whom  the  proudest  i? 
used  to  kneel  once,  and  who  was  cast  lower  than  the 
poorest:  dead,  whom  millions  prayed  for  in  vain. 
Driven  off  his  throne ;  buffeted  by  rude  hands ;  with 
his  children  in  revolt;  the  darling  of  his  old  age 
killed  before  him  untimely;  our  Lear  hangs  over 20 
her  breathless  lips  and  cries,  '  Cordelia,  Cordelia, 
stay  a  little!' 

'  Vex  not  his  ghost — oh  !  let  him  pass — he  hates  him 
That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  tough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer  ! '  25 

Hush !  Strife  and  Quarrel,  over  the  solemn  grave ! 
Sound,  trumpets,  a  mournful  march.  Fall,  dark 
curtain,  upon  his  pageant,  his  pride,  his  grief,  his 
awful  tragedy." 

—  The  Four  Georges. 

Notes. — A  composition  is  persuasive  in  proportion  as  it  30 
succeeds  in  moving  the  elementary  human  emotions.    We 
have  found,  in  the  preceding  selections  of  this  chapter, 


THE  END   OF  GEORGE  III.  333 

appeals  to  love  of  money,  to  love  of  life,  to  manly  courage 
and  perseverance,  to  the  feeling  of  hostile  rivalry,  and  to  the 
sentiments  of  patriotism,  generosity,  and  mercy.  Skillful 
speakers  often  appeal  to  the  great  social  instincts,  espe- 
5  cially  the  love  between  parent  and  child.  But  just 
because  this  sentiment  is  easily  touched,  some  speakers 
harp  on  it.  There  are  preachers  who  never  fail  to  refer  to 
dead  mothers — a  sacred  duty  no  doubt  at  times,  but  too 
sacred  for  frequent  performance.  This  passage  from 
lo  Thackeray  is  noticeable  for  the  delicate  strength  of  its 
appeal  to  three  inborn  sentiments, — sympathy  with  parent- 
hood, sympathy  with  suffering,  and  love  of  country  or 
king. 


CHAPTER  V. 

CRITICISM. 

57.— ?rbe  action  of  ©ara&fse  Host. 

JOSEPH   ADDISON. 

[Spectator  No.  267 J] 

Cedite  Romani  Scriptores,  credit  Graii. 

— Propeht. 
Give  place,  ye  Roman  and  ye  Grecian  wits. 

There  is  nothing  in  nature  more  irksome  than 
general  discourses,  especially  when  they  turn  chiefly 
upon  words.  For  this  reason  I  shall  waive  the  dis- 
cussion of  that  point  which  was  started  some  years 
5  since,  Whether  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  may  be 
called  an  heroic  poem?  those  who  will  not  give  it 
that  title,  may  call  it  (if  they  please)  a  Divine  Poem. 
It  will  be  sufficient  to  its  perfection,  if  it  has  in  it 
all  the  beauties  of  the  highest  kind  of  poetry ;  and  as 

10  for  those  who  allege  it  is  not  an  heroic  poem,  they 
advance  no  more  to  the  diminution  of  it,  than  if  they 
should  say  Adam  is  not  ^neas,  nor  Eve,  Helen. 

I  shall  therefore  examine  it  by  the  rules  of  epic 
poetry,  and  see  whether  it  falls  short  of  the  Iliad  or 

i5.^neid,  in  the  beauties  which  are  essential  to  that 
kind  of  writing.  The  first  thing  to  be  considered 
in  an  epic  poem,  is  the  fable,  which  is  perfect  or  im- 
perfect, according  as  the  action  which  it  relates  is 


33^  CRITICISM. 

more  or  less  so.  This  action  should  have  three 
qualifications  in  it.  First,  it  should  be  but  one  ac- 
tion. Secondly,  it  should  be  an  entire  action;  and 
thirdly,  it  should  be  a  great  action.  To  consider  the 
action  of  the  Iliad,  ^neid,  and  Paradise  Lost,  in  {^ 
these  three  several  lights,  Homer,  to  preserve  the 
unity  of  his  action,  hastens  into  the  midst  of  things, 
as  Horace  has  observed;  had  he  gone  up  to  Leda's 
^'gg,  or  begun  much  later,  even  at  the  rape  of  Helen, 
or  the  investing  of  Troy,  it  is  manifest  that  the  story  lo 
of  the  poem  would  have  been  a  series  of  several  ac- 
tions. He  therefore  opens  his  poem  with  the  dis- 
cord of  his  princes,  and  artfully  interweaves,  in  the 
several  succeeding  parts  of  it,  an  account  of  every- 
thing material  which  relates  to  them,  and  had  i? 
passed  before  this  fatal  dissension.  After  the 
same  manner  'yEneas  makes  his  first  appear- 
ance in  the  Tyrrhene  seas,  and  within  sight 
of  Italy,  because  the  action  proposed  to  be 
celebrated  was  that  of  his  settling  himself  in  20 
Latium.  But  because  it  was  necessary  for  the 
reader  to  know  what  had  happened  to  him  in  the 
taking  of  Troy,  and  in  the  preceding  parts  of  his 
voyage,  Virgil  makes  his  hero  relate  it  by  way  of 
episode  in  the  second  and  third  books  of  the  yEneid.  25 
The  contents  of  both  which  books  come  before 
those  of  the  first  book  in  the  thread  of  the 
story,  though  for  preserving  of  this  unity  of 
action,  they  follow  it  in  the  disposition  of  the 
poem.  Milton,  in  imitation  of  these  two  great  30 
poets,  opens  his  Paradise  Lost  with  an  in- 
fernal council  plotting  the  fall  of  man,  which 
is  the  action  he  proposed  to  celebrate;  and  as 
for  those  great  actions,  the  battle  of  the  angels,  and 


THE  ACTION  OF  PARADISE  LOST.  337 

the  creation  of  the  world,  (which  preceded  in  point 
of  time,  and  which,  in  my  opinion,  would  have  en- 
tirely destroyed  the  unity  of  his  principal  action, 
had  he  related  them  in  the  same  order  that  they  hap- 

5  pened)  he  cast  them  into  the  fifth,  sixth,  and  sev- 
enth books,  by  way  of  episode  to  this  noble  poem. 

Aristotle  himself  allows,  that  Homer  has  nothing 
to  boast  of  as  to  the  unity  of  his  fable,  though  at  the 
same  time,  that  great  critic  and  philosopher  en- 

10  deavors  to  palliate  this  imperfection  in  the  Greek 
poet,  by  imputing  it  in  some  measure  to  the  very  na- 
ture of  an  epic  poem.  Some  have  been  of  opinion, 
that  the  .^Eneid  also  labors  in  this  particular,  and  has 
episodes  which  may  be  looked  upon  as  excrescencies 

15  rather  than  as  parts  of  the  action.  On  the  contrary, 
the  poem  which  we  have  now  under  our  considera- 
tion, hath  no  other  episodes  than  such  as  naturally 
arise  from  the  subject,  and  yet  is  filled  with  such  a 
multitude  of  astonishing  incidents,  that  it  gives  us 

20  at  the  same  time  a  pleasure  of  the  greatest  variety, 
and  of  the  greatest  simplicity;  uniform  in  its  nature, 
though  diversified  in  its  execution. 

I  must  observe,  also,  that  as  Virgil,  in  the  poem, 
which  was  designed  to  celebrate  the  original  of  the 

25  Roman  empire,  has  described  the  birth  of  its  great 
rival,  the  Carthaginian  commonwealth ;  Milton,  with 
the  like  art,  in  his  poem  on  the  Fall  of  Man,  has  re- 
lated the  fall  of  those  angels  who  are  his  professed 
enemies.     Beside  the  many  other  beauties  in  such 

so  an  episode,  its  running  parallel  with  the  great  action 
of  the  poem,  hinders  it  from  breaking  the  unity  so 
much  as  another  episode  would  have  done,  that  had 
not  so  great  an  affinity  with  the  principal  subject. 
In  short,  this  is  the  same  kind  of  beauty  which  the 


338  CRITICISM. 

critics  admire  in  the  Spanish  Friar,  or  the  Double 
Discovery,  where  the  two  different  plots  look  like 
counterparts  and  copies  of  one  another, 

The  second  qualification  required  in  the  action  of 
an  epic  poem  is,  that  it  should  be  an  entire  action:  5 
an  action  is  entire  when  it  is  complete  in  all  its 
parts;  or,  as  Aristotle  describes  it,  when  it  consists 
of  a  beginning-,  a  middle,  and  an  end.     Nothing 
should  go  before  it,  be  intermixed  with  it,  or  follow 
after  it,  that  is  not  related  to  it ;  as,  on  the  contrary,  10 
no  single  step  should  be  omitted  in  that  just  and 
regular  process  which  it  must  be  supposed  to  take 
from  its  original  consummation.     Thus  we  see  the 
anger  of  Achilles  in  its  birth,  its  continuance,  and 
effects;  and  .^Eneas's  settlement  in  Italy,  carried  on  15 
through  all  the  oppositions  in  his  way  to  it  both  by 
sea   and   land.     The    action    in    Milton    excels    (I 
think)  both  the  former  in  this  particular;  we  see  it 
contrived  in  hell,  executed  upon  earth,  and  punished 
by  heaven.     The  parts  of  it  are  told  in  the  most  dis-  20 
tinct  manner,  and  grow  out  of  one  another  in  the 
most  natural  order. 

The  third  qualification  of  an  epic  poem  is  its 
greatness.  The  anger  of  Achilles  was  of  such  con- 
sequence, that  it  embroiled  the  kings  of  Greece,  de-  25 
stroyed  the  heroes  of  Asia,  and  engaged  all  the  gods 
in  factions.  The  settlement  of  -lEneas  in  Italy  pro- 
duced the  Caesars,  and  gave  birth  to  the  Roman  em- 
pire. Milton's  subject  was  still  greater  than  either 
of  the  former ;  it  does  not  determine  the  fate  of  sin-  30 
gle  persons  or  nations,  but  of  a  whole  species.  The 
united  powers  of  hell  are  joined  together  for  the 
destruction  of  mankind,  which  they  effected  in  part, 
and  would  have  completed,  had  not  Omnipotence  it- 


THE  ACTION  OF  PARADISE  10 ST.  339 

self  interposed.  The  principal  actors  are  man  in 
his  greatest  perfection,  and  woman  in  her  highest 
beauty.  Their  enemies  are  the  fallen  angels:  the 
Messiah  their  friend,  and  the  Almighty  their  pro- 
Stector.  In  short,  everything  that  is  great  in  the 
whole  circle  of  being,  whether  within  the  verge  of 
nature,  or  out  of  it,  has  a  proper  part  assigned  it 
in  this  admirable  poem. 

In  poetr)',  as  in  architecture,  not  only  the  whole, 

robut  the  principal  members,  and  every  part  of  them, 
should  be  great.  I  will  not  presume  to  say,  that  the 
book  of  Games  in  the  ^neid,  or  that  in  the  Iliad, 
are  not  of  this  nature;  nor  to  reprehend  Virgil's 
simile  of  a  top,  and  many  others  of  the  same  kind 

15  in  the  Iliad,  as  liable  to  any  censure  in  this  particu- 
lar; but  I  think  we  may  say,  without  derogating 
from  those  wonderful  performances,  that  there  is  an 
indisputable  and  unquestioned  magnificence  in  every 
part  of  Paradise  Lost,  and,  indeed,  a  much  greater 

20  than  could  have  been  formed  upon  any  Pagan  sys- 
tem. 

But  Aristotle,  by  the  greatness  of  the  action,  does 
not  only  mean  that  it  should  be  great  in  its  nature, 
but  also  in  its  duration ;  or,  in  other  words,  that  it 

25  should  have  a  due  length  in  it,  as  well  as  what  we 
properly  call  greatness.  The  just  measure  of  this 
kind  of  magnitude,  he  explains  by  the  following 
similitude.  An  animal,  no  bigger  than  a  mite,  can- 
not appear  perfect  to  the  eye,  because  the  sight  takes 

30  it  in  at  once,  and  has  only  a  confused  idea  of  the 
whole,  and  not  a  distinct  idea  of  all  its  parts ;  if,  on 
the  contrary,  you  should  suppose  an  animal  of  ten 
thousand  furlongs  in  length,  the  eye  would  be  so 
filled  with  a  single  part  of  it,  that  it  could  not  give 


340  CRITICISM. 

the  mind  an  idea  of  the  whole.  What  these  animals 
are  to  the  eye,  a  very  short  or  a  very  long  action 
would  be  to  the  memory.  The  first  would  be,  as  it 
were,  lost  and  swallowed  up  by  it,  and  the  other 
difficult  to  be  contained  in  it.  Homer  and  Virgil  5 
have  shown  their  principal  art  in  this  particular ;  the 
action  of  the  Iliad,  and  that  of  the  '^neid  were  in 
themselves  exceeding  short;  but  are  so  beautifully 
extended  and  diversified  by  the  invention  of  epi- 
sodes, and  the  machinery  of  the  gods,  with  the  like  10 
poetical  ornaments,  that  they  make  up  an  agreeable 
story  sufficient  to  employ  the  memory  without  over- 
charging it.  Milton's  action  is  enriched  with  such 
variety  of  circumstances,  that  I  have  taken  as  much 
pleasure  in  reading  the  contents  of  his  books,  as  in  15 
the  best  invented  story  I  ever  met  with.  It  is  pos- 
sible, that  the  traditions  on  which  the  Iliad  and 
Mxv€\^  were  built,  had  more  circumstances  in  them 
than  the  history  of  the  Fall  of  Man,  as  it  is  related 
in  scripture.  Besides,  it  was  easier  for  Homer  and  20 
Virgil  to  dash  the  truth  with  fiction,  as  they  were  in 
no  danger  of  offending  the  religion  of  their  country 
by  it.  But  as  for  Milton,  he  had  not  only  a  very 
few  circumstances  upon  which  to  raise  his  poem, 
but  was  also  obliged  to  proceed  with  the  greatest  25 
caution  in  everything  that  he  added  out  of  his  own 
invention.  And,  indeed,  notwithstanding  all  the  re- 
straints he  was  under,  he  has  filled  his  story  with  so 
many  surprising  incidents,  which  bear  so  close  an 
analogy  with  what  is  delivered  in  holy  writ,  that  it  30 
is  capable  of  pleasing  the  most  delicate  reader,  with- 
out giving  offense  to  the  most  scrupulous. 

The  modern  critics  have  collected,  from  several 
hints  in  the  Iliad  and  ^neid,  the  space  of  time 


THE  RANK  OF  EMERSON.  341 

which    is    taken    up    by    the    action    of    each    of 

those    poems;    but   as    a    great    part    of    Milton's 

story    was    transacted    in     regions    that     he    out 

of    the    reach    of    the    sun,    and    the    sphere    of 

3  day,   it   is   impossible   to   gratify   the    reader   with 

such  a  calculation,  which,  indeed,  would  be  more 

curious  than  instructive;  none  of  the  critics,  either 

ancient    or    modern,    having   laid    down    rules    to 

circumscribe  the  action  of  an  epic  poem  with  any 

t^  determined  number  of  years,  days,  or  hours. 

But  of  this  more  particularly  hereafter. 

Notes. — In  this  piece  of  applied  criticism,  the  second  of 
a  long  series  of  Spectators  devoted  to  the  consideration  of 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  Addison  speaks  of  "  the  Rules  of  Epic 

J5  Poetry,"  states  them,  and  applies  them  to  the  poem  under 
discussion.  By  these  rules  he  means  chiefly  the  principles 
inferred  by  Aristotle  from  an  examination  of  Homer,  and 
formulated  by  him  in  his  Poetics.  In  Addison's  day  these 
principles  had  become  an  essential  part  of  literary  theory 

20  and  practice  in  France.  They  had  suffered  various  modifi- 
cations at  the  hands  of  critics  like  Bossu,  and  had  acquired 
a  categoric  definiteness  not  dreamed  of  by  Aristotle.  Criti- 
cism like  this  of  Addison's,  appealing  as  it  does  to  well- 
established  authority,  and  savoring  of  the  schools,  we  may 

25  call  academic  criticism.  It  recognizes  objective  standards 
and  applies  them  without  reference  to  the  critic's  personal 
likes  and  dislikes. 


58.— ^be  IRanf?  of  Emerson. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

We  have  not  in  Emerson  a  great  poet,  a  great 

writer,  a  great  philosophy-maker.     His  relation  to 

30  us  is  not  that  of  one  of  those  personages ;  yet  it  is  a 


34*  CRITICISM. 

relation  of,  I  think,  even  superior  importance.  His 
relation  to  us  is  more  like  that  of  the  Roman  Em- 
peror Marcus  Aurelius.  Marcus  Aurelius  is  not  a 
great  writer,  a  great  philosophy-maker;  he  is  the 
friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would  live  in  5 
the  spirit.  Emerson  is  the  same.  He  is  the 
friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would  live  in 
the  spirit.  All  the  points  in  thinking  which 
are  necessary  for  this  purpose  he  takes;  but 
he  does  not  combine  them  into  a  system,  or  lo 
present  them  as  a  regular  philosophy.  Combined 
in  a  system  by  a  man  with  the  requisite  talent 
for  this  kind  of  thing,  they  would  be  less  useful 
than  as  Emerson  gives  them  to  us;  and  the  man 
with  the  talent  so  to  systematize  them  would  be  less  15 
impressive  than   Emerson. 

— Emerson,  in  "Discourses  in  Afnerica." 

Notes. — The  discourse  of  the  late  Matthew  Arnold  on 
Emerson  attempted  to  show  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
greatness,  seen  in  thinkers  like  Kant  and  in  stylists  like 
Swift ;  that  this  greatness,  whether  of  thought  or  of  style,  20 
is  something  roughly  determinable  ;  and  that  this  great- 
ness Emerson  has  not.  It  then  proceeded  to  maintain  that 
Emerson's  relation  to  us  is  more  important  than  that  of 
men  who  really  outrank  him  ;  and  in  order  to  name  this  re- 
lation it  offered  a  new  critical  term — "  the  friend  and  aider  25 
of  those  who  would  live  in  the  spirit."  Arnold's  criticism 
is  partly  academic  in  fact,  because  it  assumes  that  certain 
long-recognized  standards  are  real  and  definable  ;  it  is 
wholly  academic  in  spirit,  because  it  attempts  to  set  up 
norms  in  the  way  of  terminology.  30 


DISCONTINUANCE  OF  THE  GUIDE-BOARD.     343 

59.— Discontinuance  ot  tbe  6uiDc*3BoarD. 

THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 

Perhaps  the  last  indulgence  yet  to  be  won  by  the 
writer  of  fiction  will  be  that  of  discontinuing  the 
time-honored  institution  of  the  guide-board.  Many 
still  expect  it  to  stand  visible  on  his  closing  pages, 

5  at  least,  and  to  be  marked,  when  necessary,  *'  Pri- 
vate Way,"  "  Dangerous  Passing,"  that  there  may 
be  no  mistake.  Yet  surely  all  tendencies  now  lead 
to  the  abandonment  of  that  time-honored  proclama- 
tion; and  this  change  comes  simply  from  the  fact 

lo  that  fiction  is  drawing  nearer  to  life.  In  real  life,  as 
we  see  it,  the  moral  is  usually  implied  and  inferen- 
tial, not  painted  on  a  board;  you  must  often  look 
twice,  or  look  many  times,  in  order  to  read  it.  The 
eminent  sinner  dies  amid  tears  and  plaudits,  not  in 

15  the  state-prison,  as  he  should;  the  seed  of  the  right- 
eous is  often  seen  begging  bread.  We  have  to  read 
very  carefully  between  the  lines  if  we  would  fully 
recognize  the  joy  of  Marcellus  exiled,  the  secret 
ennui  of  Caesar  with  a  senate  at  his  heels.     Thus  it 

2o  is  in  daily  life — that  is,  in  nature ;  and  yet  many  still 
think  it  a  defect  in  a  story  if  it  leaves  a  single  moral 
influence  to  be  worked  out  by  the  meditation  of  the 
reader. 

On  my  lending  to  an  intelligent  young  woman,  the 

25  other  day,  Mr.  Hamlin  Garland's  remarkable  vol- 
ume, "  Main-Travelled  Roads,"  she  returned  it  with 
the  remark  that  she  greatly  admired  all  the  stories 
except  the  first,  which   seemed  to  her  immoral. 

'  Reprinted,  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  from  "  Book  aod 
Heart,"  copyright,  1897,  by  Harper  &  Brothers, 


344  CRITICISM. 

It  closed,  indeed,  as  she  justly  pointed  out,  with  a 
striking  scene  in  which  a  long-absent  lover  carries 
off  the  wife  and  child  of  a  successful  but  unworthy 
rival,  and  the  tale  ends  with  the  words :  "  The  sun 
shone  on  the  dazzling,  rustling  wheat;  the  fathom-  5 
less  sky  as  a  sea  bent  over  them,  and  the  world  lay 
before  them."  But  when  I  pointed  out  to  her,  what 
one  would  think  must  be  clear  at  a  glance  to  every 
reader,  that  behind  this  momentary  gleam  of 
beauty  lay  an  absolutely  hopeless  future;  that  10 
though  the  impulse  of  action  was  wholly  gen- 
erous, and  not  even  passional,  yet  Nemesis 
was  close  behind;  and  that  the  mere  fact 
of  the  woman's  carrying  another  man's  baby 
in  her  arms  would  prevent  all  permanent  hap- 15 
piness  with  her  lover;  my  friend  could  only  reply 
that  it  was  all  very  true,  but  she  had  never  thought 
of  it.  In  other  words,  the  guide-board  was  not 
there.  The  only  thing  that  could  have  disarmed 
her  criticism  would  have  been  a  distinct  announce-  20 
ment  on  the  author's  part :  "  N.  B.  The  situation  is 
dangerous;"  just  as  Miss  Edgeworth  used  to  ap- 
pend to  every  particularly  tough  statement:  "  N.  B. 
This  is  a  fact." 

The  truth  is,  that  in  Miss  Edgeworth's  day  they  25 
ordered  the  matter  differently.  Either  the  sinners 
and  saints  were  called  up  by  name  in  the  closing 
chapter,  and  judgment  rendered  in  detail,  or  else 
very  explicit  reasons  were  given  why  the  obvious 
award  was  impracticable.  "  The  Lord  Lilburnes  of  30 
this  hollow  world  are  not  to  be  pelted  with  the  soft 
roses  of  poetical  justice.  He  is  alone  with  old  age 
and  in  the  sight  of  death."  Thus  stands  the  guide- 
board  at  the  close  of  Bulwer's  "  Nig^ht  and  Mom- 


DISCONTINUANCE  OF  THE  GUIDE-BOARD.     345 

ing  " ;  and  in  the  discontinuance  of  such  aids  there  is 
doubtless  a  certain  risk.  Some  of  the  most  power- 
ful works  of  modern  fiction  have  apparently  failed 
to  impress  their  moral  on  the  careless  reader.     All 

5  really  strong  novels  involving  illicit  love  are  neces- 
sarily tragedies  at  last,  not  vaudevilles ;  and  nowhere 
is  this  more  true  than  in  French  literature.  The 
clever  woman  who  said  that  nothing  was  worse  than 
French  immorality  except  French  morality,  simply 

lo  failed  to  go  below  the  surface ;  for  in  France  the 
family  feeling  is  so  potent  that  the  actual  destruction 
of  the  domestic  tie  is  often  punished  with  cruel  se- 
verity, even  by  the  most  tolerant  novelists.  The 
retribution  in  "  Madame  Bovary,"  for  instance,  is  al- 

15  most  too  merciless,  since  it  wreaks  itself  even  upon 
the  body  of  the  poor  sinner  after  death,  and  pur- 
sues her  unoffending  child  to  the  poor  house.  No 
one  has  painted  a  climax  of  unlawful  passion  more 
terrific  than  that  portrayed  in  the  closing  pages  of 

2^  "  Monsieur  de  Camors  " ;  the  guilty  pair,  false  to 
every  human  obligation,  successful  in  their  wishes 
to  their  own  destruction,  nuniinibus  vota  exaudita 
malignis,  detached  by  their  crime  from  all  the  world 
and  finally  from  one  another,  wander  like  gloomy 

25  shadows  amid  an  earthly  paradise,  meeting  some- 
times unwarily,  but  never  exchanging  a  word.  Yet 
both  these  novels  are  sometimes  classed  among  the 
bad  books,  simply  because  the  guide-board  is  omit- 
ted and  the  reader  left  to  draw  his  own  moral. 

30  The  same  mis  judgment  is  often  passed  for  the 
same  reason  upon  Tolstoi's  "Anna  Karenina,"  which 
surely  is,  among  all  books  upon  this  same  theme,  the 
most  utterly  relentless.  Not  merely  does  it  not  con- 
tain, from  beginning  to  end,  a  prurient  scene  or 


34^  CRITICISM. 

■even  a  voluptuous  passage,  but  its  plot  moves  £Ld 
inexorably  and  almost  as  visibly  as  a  Greek  fate. 
Even  Hawthorne  allows  his  guilty  lovers,  in 
"  The  Scarlet  Letter,"  a  moment  of  delusive 
Aiappiness ;  even  Hawthorne  recognizes  the  un-  5 
^questionable  truth  that  the  foremost  result  of 
a  broken  law  is  sometimes  an  enchanting  sense 
of  freedom.  Tolstoi  tolerates  no  such  enchant- 
ment, and  he  has  written  the  only  novel  of 
illicit  love,  perhaps,  in  which  the  offenders — both  10 
being  persons  otherwise  high-minded  and  noble — 
fail  to  derive  from  their  sin  one  hour  of  even  tem- 
porary happiness.  From  the  moment  of  their  yield- 
ing we  see  the  shadow  already  over  them;  the  au- 
thor is  as  merciless  to  these  beings  of  his  own  con-  15 
struction  as  if  he  hated  them ;  and  one  feels  like  call- 
ing in  an  Omar  Khayyam  to  defend  once  more  the 
created  against  an  unjust  creator.  Yet  "  Anna 
Karenina  "  has  often  been  condemned  as  immoral, 
in  the  absence  of  the  guide-board.  20 

If,  now,  we  consider,  in  the  light  of  these  strik- 
ing instances,  what  it  is  that  has  brought  about  this 
gradual  disuse  of  the  overt  and  visible  moral,  we 
shall  soon  see  that  it  is  a  part  of  the  general  ten- 
dency of  modern  literature  to  do  without  external  25 
aids  to  make  its  meaning  clear.  There  is  undoubt- 
edly a  tendency  to  rely  more  and  more  upon  what 
has  been  well  called  "  the  presumption  of  brains  " 
in  the  reader.  Note,  for  instance,  the  steady  dis- 
appearance of  the  italic  letter  from  the  printed  page.  30 
Once  used  as  freely  as  in  an  epistle  from  one  of 
Thackeray's  fine  ladies,  it  is  now  employed  by  care- 
ful writers  almost  wholly  to  indicate  foreign  words 
or  book  titles;  a  change  m  which  Emerson  and 


DISCONTINUANCE  OF  THE  GUIDE-BOARD.      347 

Hawthorne  were  conspicuous  leaders.  There  is  a 
feehng  that  only  a  very  crude  literary  art  will  now 
depend  on  typography  for  shades  of  meaning 
which  should  be  rendered  by  the  very  structure  of 
5  the  sentence.  The  same  fate  of  banishment  is  over- 
taking the  exclamation-point,  so  long  used  by  poets 
— conspicuously  by  Whittier — as  a  note  of  admira- 
\  tion  also.  Here,  too,  as  in  the  other  case,  the  em- 
phasis is  now  left  to  render  itself ;  and  even  the  last 

lo  verse  of  the  poem,  which  often — to  cite  Whittier 
again — contained  the  detached  moral  of  the  lay,  is 
now  commonly  clipped  off,  leaving  the  reader  to 
draw  the  moral  for  himself.  The  poet  now  makes 
his  point  as  best  he  can,  and  leaves  it  without  a 

15  guide-board;  in  this  foreshadowing  precisely  that 

change  which  has  also  come  over  the  prose  novel. 

Granting  that  much  fiction,  at  any  rate,  has  a 

moral  expressed  or  implied,  it  is  to  be  observed  that 

all  fiction  has  changed  its  note  in  other  respects 

20  within  the  last  century,  and  must  accept  its  own 
laws.  Formerly  conveying  its  moral  often  through 
a  symbol,  it  now  conveys  it,  if  at  all,  by  direct  nar- 
rative. The  distinction  has  never  been  better  put 
than  in  a  remarkable  and  little-known  letter  ad- 

25  dressed  by  Heine  on  his  death-bed  ( 1856)  to  Varn- 
hagen  von  Ense,  in  giving  a  personal  introduction 
to  Ferdinand  Lassalle.  "  The  new  generation," 
wrote  Heine,  "  means  to  enjoy  itself  and  make  the 
best  of  the  visible ;  we  of  the  older  one  bowed  hum- 

3obly  before  the  invisible,  yearned  after  shadow 
kisses  and  blue-flower  fragrances,  denied  ourselves, 
wept  and  smiled  and  were  perhaps  happier  than 
these  fierce  gladiators  who  walk  so  proudly  to  meet 
their  death-struggle."     The  blue-flower  allusion  is 


348  CRITICISM. 

to  the  favorite  ideal  symbol  of  the  German  Novalis ; 
and  certainly  the  young  men  who  grew  up  fifty  or 
sixty  years  ago  in  America  obtained  some  of  their 
very  best  tonic  influences  through  such  thoroughly 
ideal  tales  as  that  writer's  "  Heinrich  von  Ofterdin-  3 
gen,"  Fouque's  "  Sintram,"  Hoffmann's  "  Goldene 
Topf,"  and  Richter's  "  Titan  " ;  whether  these  were 
read  in  the  original  German  or  in  the  translations 
of  Carlyle,  Brooks,  and  others.  All  these  books 
are  now  little  sought,  and  rather  alien  to  the  iQ 
present  taste.  To  these  were  added,  in  English, 
such  tales  as  Poe's  "  William  Wilson  "  and  Haw- 
thorne's "  The  Birthmark "  and  "  Rappaccini's 
Daughter " ;  and,  in  French,  Balzac's  "  Le  Peau 
de  Chagrin,"  which  Professor  Longfellow  used  15 
warmly  to  recommend  to  his  college  pupils. 
Works  like  these  represented  the  prevailing 
sentiment  of  a  period ;  they  exerted  a  distinct 
influence  on  the  molding  of  a  generation.  Their 
moral  was  irresistible  for  those  who  really  cared  20 
enough  for  the  books  to  read  them ;  they  needed  no 
guide-boards;  the  guide-board  was  for  the  eadier 
efforts  at  realism,  before  it  had  proved  its  strength. 
Realism  has  since  achieved  its  maturity,  and  un- 
doubtedly has  won — if  it  has  not  already  lost  again  25 
— possession  of  the  field.  Whether  its  sway  be,  as 
many  think,  a  permanent  change,  or  only,  as  I  my- 
self believe,  a  swing  of  the  pendulum,  the  fact  is 
the  same.  It  is  as  useless  to  resist  such  changes 
as  it  is  for  Lowell  to  go  on  lighting  his  pipe  for  30 
years  with  flint  and  steel,  which  I  well  remember 
his  doing  rather  than  accept  the  innovation  of  a 
friction-match.  Realism  must  hold  the  field  so  long 
as  it  has  a  right  to  do  it,  and  it  can  only  be  asked  to 


DISCONTINUANCE  OF  THE  GUIDE-BOARD.      349 

fulfill  the  conditions  of  its  being.  If  we  excuse  it, 
as  we  plainly  must,  from  the  perpetuation  of  the 
guide-board,  we  can  only  ask  that  it  shall  go  on  and 
do  its  work  so  well  that  no  such  aid  shall  be  needed ; 

5  that  its  moral,  where  there  is  one,  shall  be  reason- 
ably plain;  that  is,  so  clearly  put  as  to  produce  a 
minimum  of  misunderstanding.  How  important 
this  is  may  be  appreciated  when  we  consider  that  so 
great  an  artist  as  Goethe,  writing  "  Die  Wahlver- 

lo  wandschaften,"  expressly,  as  he  thought,  to  vindi- 
cate the  marriage  laws,  was  supposed  by  his  whole 
generation  to  have  written  against  them,  simply 
through  an  ill-chosen  title  and  a  single  unseemly 
incident.     And  another  reasonable  condition  is  that 

15  fiction,  being  thus  set  free,  should  be  a  law  unto 
itself  and  stop  short  of  undesirable  materials ;  that  it 
should  obey  that  high  and  significant  maxim  of  the 
Roman  augurs — never  to  let  the  sacred  entrails  be 
displayed  outside  the  solemnity  of  the  temple.     It  is 

20  for  disregard  in  this  respect,  and  not  for  any  want 
of  serious  purpose — since  he  usually  has  such  a  pur- 
pose, and  does  not  write  with  levity — that  Zola  is  to 
be  condemned. 

But  granting  these  simple  conditions  fulfilled,  the 

25  writer  of  fiction  should  surely  be  allowed  henceforth 
to  wind  up  his  story  in  his  own  way,  without  formal 
proclamation  of  his  moral ;  or,  better  still,  to  leave 
the  tale  without  technical  and  elaborate  winding  up, 
as  nature  leaves  her  stories.     His  work  is  a  great 

30  one,  to  bring  comedy  and  even  tragedy  down  from 
the  old  traditions  of  kingliness  to  the  vaster  and 
more  complex  currents  of  modern  democratic  life. 
When  the  elder  Scaliger  wrote,  in  1561,  that  work 
on  Poetry  which  so  long  ruled  the  traditions  of 


35°  CRITICISM. 

European  literature,  he  defined  the  difference  be- 
tween tragedy  and  comedy  to  consist  largely  in  this 
— that  tragedy  concerned  itself  only  with  kings, 
princes,  cities,  citadels,  and  camps ;  m  tragedia 
reges,  principes,  ex  urbibus,  arcibtis,  castris.  All  5 
these  things  are  now  changed.  Kings,  princes, 
camps,  citadels  are  passing  away,  and  the  cities  that 
will  soon  alone  survive  them  are  filled  with  a  demo- 
cratic world,  which  awaits  its  chronicles  of  joy  or 
pain.  The  writer  of  fiction  must  tell  his  tale,  and  10 
leave  it  to  yield  its  own  moral.  The  careless  or 
hasty  reader  will  often  misinterpret  it,  and  would 
do  so  were  the  guide-board  ever  so  conspicuous ;  but 
the  serious  student  will  bear  away  an  influence  pro- 
portioned to  the  hidden  wealth  of  meaning,  and  this  15 
meaning  will  be  more  precious  in  proportion  as  he 
has  been  left  to  discern  it  for  himself. 

Notes. — This  essay  of  Colonel  Higginson  evidently 
proceeds  with  reference  to  some  objective  standards,  if  no 
others  than  certain  rhetorical  principles  of  emphasis.  But  20 
the  phrasing,  the  style  of  the  piece,  is  not  academic  ;  it 
reveals  few  or  no  recognized  technical  terms.  The  whole 
piece  is  an  expansion  of  a  figure  of  speech.  The  com- 
parison of  the  sign-board  is  a  personal  one  of  Colonel 
Higginson's  ;  it  records  a  personal  impression.  Since  the  25 
piece  recognizes  some  standard,  but  is  impressionistic  in 
style,  we  may  classify  it  as  partly  academic  and  partly 
impressionistic. 

60.— ®n  a  |>eal  of  JBclIs. 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

As  some  bells  in  a  church  hard  by  are  making  a 
great  holiday  clanging  in  the  summer  afternoon,  30 
I  am  reminded  somehow  of  a  July  day,  a  garden, 


ON  A   PEAL   OF  BELLS.  35 1 

and  a  great  clanging  of  bells  years  and  years  ago, 
on  the  very  day  when  George  IV.  was  crowned.  I 
remember  a  little  boy  lying  in  that  garden  reading 
his  first  novel.  It  was  called  the  "  Scottish  Chiefs." 
5  The  little  boy  (who  is  now  ancient  and  not  little) 
read  this  book  in  the  summer-house  of  his  great- 
grandmamma.  She  was  eighty  years  of  age  then. 
A  most  lovely  and  picturesque  old  lady,  with  a  long 
tortoise-shell  cane,   with   a   little  puff,   or   tour  of 

10  snow  white  (or  was  it  powdered?)  hair  under  her 
cap,  with  the  prettiest  little  black-velvet  slippers  and 
high  heels  you  ever  saw.  She  had  a  grandson,  a 
lieutenant  in  the  navy ;  son  of  her  son,  a  captain  in 
the  navy;  grandson  of  her  husband,  a  captain  in 

15  the  navy.  She  lived  for  scores  and  scores  of  years 
in  a  dear  little  old  Hampshire  town  inhabited  by  the 
wives,  widows,  daughters  of  navy  captains,  admi- 
rals, lieutenants.  Dear  me!  Don't  I  remember 
Mrs.  Duval,  widow  of  Admiral  Duval;  and  the  Miss 

2o  Dennets,  at  the  Great  house  at  the  other  end  of  the 
town.  Admiral  Dennet's  daughters ;  and  the  Miss 
Barrys,  the  late  Captain  Barry's  daughters ;  and  the 
good  old  Miss  Maskews,  Admiral  Maskew's  daugh- 
ters ;  and  that  dear  little  Miss  Norval,  and  the  kind 

25  Miss  Bookers,  one  of  whom  married  Captain,  now 
Admiral  Sir  Henry  Excellent,  K.  C.  B.?  Far,  far 
away  into  the  past  I  look  and  see  the  little  town  with 
its  friendly  glimmer.  That  town  was  so  like  a 
novel  of  Miss  Austen's  that  I  wonder  was  she  born 

30 and  bred  there?  No,  we  should  have  known,  and 
the  good  old  ladies  would  have  pronounced  her  to  be 
a  little  idle  thing,  occupied  with  her  silly  books  and 
neglecting  her  housekeeping.  There  were  other 
towns  in  England,  no  doubt,  where  dwelt  the  wid- 


352  CRITICISM. 

ows  and  wives  of  other  navy  captains;  where  they 
tattled,    loved    each    other,    and    quarreled ;    talked 
about  Betty  the  maid,  and  her  fine  ribbons  indeed ! 
took  their  dish  of  tea  at  six,  played  at  quadrille 
every  night  till  ten,  when  there  was  a  little  bit  of  5 
supper,  after  which  Betty  came  with  the  lanthorn ; 
and  next  day  came,  and  next,  and  next,  and  so  forth, 
until  a  day  arrived  when  the  lanthorn  was  out,  when 
Betty  came  no  more :  all  that  little  company  sank  to 
rest  under  the  daisies,  whither  some  folks  will  pres-  lo 
ently  follow  them.     How  did  they  live  to  be  so  old, 
those  good   psople?     Moi  qui  vous  parle,   I   per- 
fectly recollect  old  Mr.  Gilbert,  who  had  been  to  sea 
with  Captain  Cook ;  and  Captain  Cook,  as  you  justly 
observe,  dear  Miss,  quoting  out  of  your  "  Mang-  15 
nail's  Questions,"  was  murdered  by  the  natives  of 
Owhyhee,  anno  1779.     Ah !  don't  you  remember  his 
picture,    standing   on   the   seashore,   in   tights   and 
gaiters,  with  a  musket  in  his  hand,  pointing  to  his 
people  not  to  fire  from  the  boats,  whilst  a  great  tat-  20 
tooed  savage  is  going  to  stab  him   in  the  back? 
Don't  you  remember  those  houries  dancing  before 
him  and  the  other  officers  at  the  great  Otaheite  ball  ? 
Don't  you  know  that  Cook  was  at  the  siege  of  Que- 
bec, with  the  glorious  Wolfe,  who  fought  under  the  25 
Duke  of  Cumberland,  whose  royal  father  was  a  dis- 
tinguished   officer    at    Ramillies,    before    he    com- 
manded in  chief  at  Dettingen?     Huzza!     Give  it 
them,  my  lads!     My  horse  is  down.     Then  I  know 
I  shall  not  run  away.     Do  the  French  run?  then  I  30 
die    content.      Stop.     Wo!     Quo    me    rapis?     My 
Pegasus  is  galloping  off,  goodness  knows  where, 
like  his  Majesty's  charger  at  Dettingen. 
How  do  these  rich  historical  and  personal  reminis- 


ON  A   PEAL   OF  BELLS.  353 

cences  come  out  of  the  subject  at  present  in  hand? 
What  is  that  subject,  by  the  way?  My  dear  friend, 
if  you  look  at  the  last  essaykin  (though  you  may 
leave  it  alone,  and  I  shall  not  be  in  the  least  sur- 

5  prised  or  offended),  if  you  look  at  the  last  paper, 
where  the  writer  imagines  Athos  and  Porthos,  Dal- 
getty  and  Ivanhoe,  Amelia  and  Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
son,  Don  Quixote  and  Sir  Roger,  walking  in  at  the 
garden    window,   you    will    at   once    perceive   that 

lo  Novels  and  their  heroes  and  heroines  are  our 
present  subject  of  discourse,  into  whicTi  we  will 
presently  plunge.  Are  you  one  of  us,  dear  sir, 
and  do  you  love  novel-reading?  To  be  reminded  of 
your  first  novel  will  surely  be  a  pleasure  to  you. 

15  Hush !  I  never  read  quite  to  the  end  of  my  first,  the 
"  Scottish  Chiefs."  I  couldn't.  I  peeped  in  an 
alarmed  furtive  manner  at  some  of  the  closing 
pages.  Miss  Porter,  like  a  kind  dear  tender- 
hearted creature,  would  not  have  Wallace's  head 

20  chopped  off  at  the  end  of  Vol.  V.  She  made  him 
die  in  prison,*  and  if  I  remember  right  (protesting 
I  have  not  read  the  book  for  forty-two  or  three 
years),  Robert  Bruce  made  a  speech  to  his  soldiers, 
in  which  he  said,  "  And  Bannockburn  shall  equal 

25  Cambuskenneth."  f     But  I  repeat  I  could  not  read 

*  I  find,  on  reference  to  the  novel,  that  Sir  William  died 
on  the  scaffold,  not  in  prison.  His  last  words  were, 
"'My  prayer  is  heard.  Life's  cord  is  cut  by  heaven. 
Helen !  Helen !  May  heaven  preserve  my  country, 
30  and — '  He  stopped.  He  fell.  And  with  that  mighty 
shock  the  scaffold  shook  to  its  foundations." 

f  The  remark  of  Bruce  (which  I  protest  I  had  not  read 
for  forty-two  years),  I  find  to  be  as  follows : — "  When  this 
was  uttered  by  the  English  heralds,  Bruce  turned  to  Ruth- 


354  CRITICISM. 

the  end  of  the  fifth  volume  of  that  dear  delightful 
book  for  crying.  Good  heavens!  It  was  as  sad,  as 
sad  as  going  back  to  school. 

The  glorious  Scott  cycle  of  romances  came  to  me 
some  four  or  five  years  afterwards  ;  and  I  think  boys  5 
of  our  year  were  specially  fortunate  in  coming  upon 
those  delightful  books  at  that  special  time  when  we 
could  best  enjoy  them.     Oh,  that  sunshiny  bench  on 
half-holidays,  with  Claverhouse  or  Ivanhoe  for  a 
companion !     I   have   remarked   of  very   late   days  10 
some  little  men  in  a  great  state  of  delectation  over 
the  romances  of  Captain  Mayne  Reid,  and  Gustave 
Aimard's  Prairie  and  Indian  Stories,  and  during  oc- 
casional holiday  visits,  lurking  off  to  bed  with  the 
volume  under  their  arms.     But  are  those  Indians  15 
and  warriors  so  terrible  as  our  Indians  and  warriors 
were?     (I  say,  are  they?     Young  gentlemen,  mind, 
I  do  not  say  they  are  not.)     But  as  an  oldster  I  can 
be  heartily  thankful  for  the  novels  of  the  i-io  Geo. 
IV.,  let  us  say,  and  so  downward  to  a  period  not  20 
unremote.     Let   us   see;   there   is,   first,   our   dear 

ven,  with  an  heroic  smile,  '  Let  him  come,  my  brave 
barons  !  and  he  shall  find  that  Bannockburn  shall  page 
with  Cambuskenneth  ! '"  In  the  same  amiable  author's 
famous  novel  of  "  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,"  there  is  more  crj'-  25 
ing  than  in  any  novel  I  ever  remember  to  have  read.  See, 
for  example,  the  last  page.  "...  Incapable  of  speak- 
ing, Thaddeus  led  his  wife  back  to  her  carriage.  .  .  .  His 
tears  gushed  out  in  spite  of  himself,  and  mingling  with 
hers,  poured  those  thanks,  those  assurances  of  animated  30 
approbation  through  her  heart,  which  made  it  even  ache 
with  excess  of  happiness.  .  .  ."  And  a  sentence  or  two 
further.  "  Kosciusko  did  bless  him,  and  embalmed  the 
benediction  with  a  shower  of  tears." 


ON  A   PEAL   OF  BELLS.  355 

Scott.     Whom  do  I  love  in  the  works  of  that  dear 
old  master?     Amo — 

The  Baron  of  Bradwardine  and  Fergus.     (Cap- 
tain Waverly  is  certainly  very  mild.) 
5      Amo  Ivanhoe ;  LOCKSLEY ;  the  Templar. 

Amo  Quentin  Durward,  and  especially  Quentin's 
\     uncle,  who  brought  the  boar  to  bay.     I  forget  the 
gentleman's  name. 

I  have  never  cared  for  the  Master  of  Ravenswood, 
lo  or  fetched  his  hat  out  of  the  water  since  he  dropped 
it  there  when  I  last  met  him  (circa  1825). 

Amo  Saladin  and  the  Scotch   Knight   in   the 
"  Talisman."     The  Sultan  best. 
Amo  Claverhouse. 
15     Amo  Major  Dalgetty.     Delightful  Major.     To 
think  of  him  is  to  desire  to  jump  up,  run  to  the  book, 
and  get  the  volume  down  from  the  shelf.     About  all 
those  heroes  of  Scott,  what  a  manly  bloom  there  is, 
and  honorable  modesty?    They  are  not  at  all  heroic. 
20  They  seem  to  blush  somehow  in  their  position  of 
hero,  and  as  it  were  to  say,  "  Since  it  must  be  done, 
here  goes !  "     They  are  handsome,  modest,  upright, 
simple,  courageous,  not  too  clever.     If  I  were  a 
mother    (which   is   absurd),    I    should   like   to   be 
25  mother-in-law  to  several  young  men  of  the  Walter- 
Scott-hero  sort. 

Much  as  I  like  those  most  unassuming,  manly, 
unpretending  gentlemen,  I  have  to  own  that  I  think 
the  heroes  of  another  writer,  viz. : — 
30     Leather-stocking, 
TJncas, 
Hardheart, 
Tom  Coffin, 
are    quite    the    equals    of    Scott's    men;    perhaps 


35^  CRITICISM. 

Leather-Stocking  is  better  than  any  one  in  "  Scott's 
lot."  La  Longue  Carabine  is  one  of  the  great  prize 
men  of  fiction.  He  ranks  with  your  Uncle  Toby, 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  FalstafT — heroic  figures,  all 
— American  or  British,  and  the  artist  has  deserved  5 
well  of  his  country  who  devised  them. 

At  school,  in  my  time,  there  was  a  public 
day,  when  the  boys'  relatives,  an  examining 
bigwig  or  two  from  the  universities,  old  school- 
fellows, and  so  forth,  came  to  the  place.  The  10 
boys  were  all  paraded;  prizes  were  adminis- 
tered; each  lad  being  in  a  new  suit  of  clothes 
— and  magnificent  dandies,  I  promise  you,  some 
of  us  were.  Oh,  the  chubby  cheeks,  clean  col- 
lars, glossy  new  raiment,  beaming  faces,  glorious  in  15 
youth — at  tueri  caelum — bright  with  truth,  and 
mirth,  and  honor!  To  see  a  hundred  boys  mar- 
shaled in  a  chapel  or  old  hall;  to  hear  their  sweet 
fresh  voices  when  they  chant,  and  look  in  their 
brave  calm  faces ;  I  say,  does  not  the  sight  and  20 
sound  of  them  smite  you,  somehow,  with  a  pang  of 
exquisite  kindness?  .  .  .  Well.  As  about  boys, 
so  about  Novelists.  I  fancy  the  boys  of  Parnassus 
School  all  paraded.  I  am  a  lower  boy  myself  in  that 
academy.  I  like  our  fellows  to  look  well,  upright,  25 
gentlemanlike.  There  is  Master  Fielding — he  with 
the  black  eye.  What  a  magnificent  build  of  a  boy ! 
There  is  Master  Scott,  one  of  the  heads  of  the 
school.  Did  you  ever  see  the  fellow  more  hearty 
and  manly?  Yonder  lean,  shambling,  cadaverous  3^ 
lad,  who  is  always  borrowing  money,  telling  lies, 
Inering  after  the  housemaids,  is  Master  Laurence 
Sterne — a  bishop's  grandson,  and  himself  intepvied 


ON-  A    PEAL    OF  BELLS.  357 

for  the  Church ;  for  shame,  you  Httle  reprobate ! 
But  what  a  genius  the  fellow  has !  Let  him  have 
a  sound  flogging,  and  as  soon  as  the  young  scamp 
is  out  of  the  whipping  room  give  him  a  gold  medal. 
5  Such  would  be  my  practice  if  I  were  Doctor  Birch, 
and  master  of  the  school. 

Let  us  drop  this  school  metaphor,  this  birch  and 
all  pertaining  thereto.  Our  subject,  I  beg  leave  to 
remind  the  reader's  humble  servant,  is  novel  heroes 

ioand  heroines.  How  do  you  like  your  heroes,  ladies? 
Gentlemen,  what  novel  heroines  do  you  prefer? 
When  I  set  this  essay  going,  I  sent  the  above  ques- 
tion to  two  of  the  most  inveterate  novel-readers  of 
my  acquaintance.     The  gentleman  refers  me  to  Miss 

15  Austen;  the  lady  says  Athos,  Guy  Livingston,  and 
(pardon  my  rosy  blushes)  Colonel  Esmond,  and 
owns  that  in  youth  she  was  very  much  in  love  with 
Valancourt. 

"  Valancourt?  and  who  was  he?  "  cry  the  young 

20  people.  Valancourt,  my  dears,  was  the  hero  of  one 
of  the  most  famous  romances  which  ever  was  pub- 
lished in  this  country.  The  beauty  and  elegance  of 
Valancourt  made  your  young  grandmammas'  gen- 
tle hearts  to  beat  with  respectful  sympathy.     He 

25  and  his  glory  have  passed  away.  Ah,  woe  is  me 
that  the  glory  of  novels  should  ever  decay ;  that  dust 
should  gather  round  them  on  the  shelves;  that  the 
annual  checks  from  Messieurs  the  publishers  should 
dwindle,  dwindle!     Inquire  at  Mudie's,  or  the  Lon- 

30  don  Library,  who  asks  for  the  "  Mysteries  of  Udol- 
pho "  now  ?  Have  not  even  the  "  Mysteries  ol 
Paris  "  ceased  to  frighten  ?  Alas,  our  novels  are 
but  for  a  season;  and  I  know  characters  whom  a 
painful  modesty  forbids  me  to  mention,  who  shall 


35  S  CRITICISM. 

go  to  limbo  along  with  "  Valancourt "  and  "  Dori- 
court "  and  "  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw." 

A  dear  old  sentimental  friend,  with  whom  I  dis- 
coursed on  the  subject  of  novels  yesterday,  said  that 
her  favorite  hero  was  Lord  Orville,  in  "  Evelina,"  5 
that  novel  which  Dr.  Johnson  loved  so.  I  took 
down  the  book  from  a  dusty  old  crypt  at  a  club, 
where  Mrs.  Barbauld's  novelists  repose:  and  this 
is  the  kind  of  thing,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  in  which 
your  ancestors  found  pleasure : —  lo 

"  And  here,  whilst  I  was  looking  for  the  books,  I 
was  followed  by  Lord  Orville.  He  shut  the  door 
after  he  came  in,  and,  approaching  me  with  a  look  of 
anxiety,  said,  '  Is  this  true.  Miss  Anville — are  you 
going? '  15 

"  '  I  believe  so,  my  lord,'  said  I,  still  looking  for 
the  books. 

"  '  So  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly :  must  I  lose 
you? ' 

"  '  No  great  loss,  my  lord,'  said  I,  endeavoring  to  20 
speak  cheerfully. 

"  '  Is  it  possible,'  said  he,  gravely,  *  Miss  Anville 
can  doubt  my  sincerity  ? ' 

"  '  I  can't  imagine,'  cried  I,  '  what  Mrs.  Selwyn 
has  done  with  those  books.'  25 

"  '  Would  to  heaven,'  continued  he,  '  I  might  flat- 
ter myself  you  would  allow  me  to  prove  it ! ' 

"  '  I  must  run  upstairs,'  cried  I,  greatly  confused, 
'  and  ask  what  she  has  done  with  them.' 

"  '  You  are  going  then,'  cried  he,  taking  my  hand,  30 
*  and  you  give  me  not  the  smallest  hope  of  any  re- 
turn!    Will  you  not,  my  too  lovely  friend,  will  you 
not  teach  me,  with  fortitude  like  your  own,  to  sup- 
port your  absence?  ' 


ON  A   PEAL   OF  BELLS.  359 

"  '  My  lord,'  cried  I,  endeavoring  to  disengage  my 
hand,  '  pray  let  me  go ! ' 

"  *  I  will,'  cried  he,  to  my  inexpressible  confusion, 
dropping  on  one  knee,  '  if  you  wish  me  to  le^ve 
5  you.' 

"  '  Oh,  my  lord,'  exclaimed  I,  '  rise,  I  beseech 
you ;  rise.  Surely  your  lordship  is  not  so  cruel  as  to 
mock  me.' 

"  '  Mock  you! '  repeated  he  earnestly,  '  no,  I  re- 
lovere  you.  I  esteem  and  admire  you  above  all  hu- 
man beings !  You  are  the  friend  to  whom  my  soul 
is  attached,  as  to  its  better  half.  You  are  the  most 
amiable,  the  most  perfect  of  women ;  and  you  are 
dearer  to  me  than  language  has  the  power  of  tell- 
15  ing.' 

"  I  attempt  not  to  describe  my  sensations  at  that 

moment ;  I  scarce  breathed ;  I  doubted  if  I  existed ; 

the  blood  forsook  my  cheeks,  and  my  feet  refused  to 

sustain  me.     Lord  Orville  hastily  rising  supported 

20  me  to  a  chair  upon  which  I  sank  almost  lifeless. 

"  I  cannot  write  the  scene  that  followed,  though 
every  word  is  engraven  on  my  heart;  but  his  pro- 
testations, his  expressions,  were  too  flattering  for 
repetition;  nor  would  he,  in  spite  of  my  repeated 
25  efforts  to  leave  him,  suffer  me  to  escape ;  in  short, 
my  dear  sir,  I  was  not  proof  against  his  solicitations, 
and  he  drew  from  me  the  most  sacred  secret  of  my 
heart ! "  * 

♦Contrast  this  old  perfumed,  powdered  D'Arblay  con- 

30  versation  with  the  present  modern  talk.     If  the  two  young 

people    wished   to  hide    their  emotions    nowadays,   and 

express  themselves  in  modest  language,  the  story  would 

run  : — 

"  Whilst  I  was  looking  for  the  books,  Lord  Orville  came 


3^0  CRITICISM, 

Other  people  may  not  much  like  this  ex- 
tract, madam,  from  your  favorite  novel,  but 
when  you  come  to  read  it,  you  will  like  it. 
I  suspect  that  when  you  read  that  book  which 
you  so  love,  you  read  is  d  deux.  Did  you  i 
not  yourself  pass  a  winter  at  Bath,  when  you 
were  the  belle  of  the  assembly?  Was  there  not 
a  Lord  Orville  in  your  case  too?  As  you  think  of 
him  eleven  lusters  pass  away.  You  look  at  him 
with  the  bright  eyes  of  those  days,  and  your  heroio 

in.     He  looked  uncommonly  down  in  the  mouth,  as  he 
said  :  '  Is  this  true,  Miss  Anville  ;  are  you  going  to  cut  ? ' 

"'To  absquatulate,  Lord  Orville,'  said  I,  still  pretend- 
ing that  I  was  looking  for  the  books. 

"  '  You  are  very  quick  about  it,'  said  he.  15 

"  '  Guess  it's  no  great  loss,'  I  remarked,  as  cheerfully  as 
I  could. 

"  '  You  don't  think   I'm  chaffing_? '  said  Orville,   with 
much  emotion. 

"'What  has  Mrs.    Selwyn    done   with    the   books?'   1 20 
went  on. 

"  '  What,  going  ? '  said  he,  '  and  going  for  good  ?    I  wish 
I  was  such  a  good-plucked  one  as  you,  Miss  Anville,'  "  etc. 

The  conversation,  you  perceive,  might  be  easily  written 
down   to  this  key  ;    and  if  the  hero    and  heroine  were  25 
modern,  they  would  not  be  suffered  to  go  through  their 
dialogue  on  stilts,  but  would  converse  in  the  natural  grace- 
ful way  at  present  customary.     By  the  way,  what  a  strange 
custom  that  is  in  modern  lady  novelists  to  make  the  men 
bully  the  women  !     In  the  time  of  Miss  Porter  and  Madame  30 
d'Arblay,  we  have  respect,  profound  bows  and  courtesies, 
graceful  courtesy,  from  men  to  women.     In  the  time  of 
Miss   Bront6,   absolute   rudeness.     Is  it  true,  mesdames, 
that  you  like  rudeness,  and  are  pleased  at  being  ill-used 
by  men  ?    I  could  point  to  more  than  one  lady  novelist  who  35 
so  represents  you. 


ON  A   PEAL   OF  BELLS.  3^1 

Stands  before  you,  the  brave,  the  accomplished,  the 
simple,  the  true  gentleman ;  and  makes  the  most  ele- 
gant of  bows  to  one  of  the  most  beautiful  young  wo- 
men the  world  ever  saw :  and  he  leads  you  out  to  the 
5  cotillon,  to  the  dear  unforgotten  music.  Hark  to 
the  horns  of  Elfland,  blowing,  blowing!  Bonne 
vieille,  you  remember  their  melody,  and  your  heart- 
strings thrill  with  it  still. 

Of  your  heroic  heroes,  I  think  our  friend  Mon- 

lo  seigneur  Athos,  Count  de  la  Fere,  is  my  favorite.  I 
have  read  about  him  from  sunrise  to  sunset  with  the 
utmost  contentment  of  mind.  He  has  passed 
through  how  many  volumes?  Forty?  Fifty?  I 
wish  for  my  part  there  were  a  hundred  more,  and 

15  would  never  tire  of  him  rescuing  prisoners,  pun- 
ishing ruffians,  and  running  scoundrels  through  the 
midriff  with  his  most  graceful  rapier.  Ah,  Athos, 
Porthos,  and  Aramis,  you  are  a  magnificent  trio. 
I  think  I  like  d'Artagnan  in  his  own  memoirs  best. 

20 1  bought  him  years  and  years  ago,  price  fivepence, 
in  a  little  parchment-covered  Cologne-printed  vol- 
ume, at  a  stall  in  Gray's  Inn  Lane.  Dumas  glorifies 
him  and  makes  a  Marshal  of  him ;  if  I  remember 
rightly,  the  original  d'Artagnan  was  a  needy  ad- 

25  venturer,  who  died  in  exile  very  early  in  Louis 
XIV.'s  reign.  Did  you  ever  read  the  "  Chevalier 
d'Harmenthal  "?  Did  you  ever  read  the  "  Tulipe 
Noire,"  as  modest  as  a  story  by  Miss  Edge- 
worth?      I    think    of    the    prodigal    banquets    to 

30  which  this  Lucullus  of  a  man  has  invited 
me,  with  thanks  and  wonder.  To  what  a 
series  of  splendid  entertainments  he  has  treated 
me!  Where  does  he  find  the  money  for 
these   prodigious   feasts?    They   say   that   all   the 


362  CRITICISM. 

works  bearing  Dumas's  name  are  not  written  by 
him.  Well?  Does  not  the  chief  cook  have  aides 
under  him?  Did  not  Rubens's  pupils  paint  on  his 
canvases?  Had  not  Lawrence  assistants  for  his 
backgrounds?  For  myself,  being  also  du  'metier,  I  5 
confess  I  would  often  like  to  have  a  competent,  re- 
spectable, and  rapid  clerk  for  the  business  part  of 
my  novels;  and  on  his  arrival,  at  eleven  o'clock, 
would  say,  "  Mr.  Jones,  if  you  please,  the  arch- 
bishop must  die  this  morning  in  about  five  pages.  10 
Turn  to  article  '  Dropsy  '  (or  what  you  will)  in  En- 
cyclopedia. Take  care  there  are  no  medical  blun- 
ders in  his  death.  Group  his  daughters,  physicians, 
and  chaplains  round  him.  In  Wales's  '  London,' 
letter  B,  third  shelf,  you  will  find  an  account  of  15 
Lambeth,  and  some  prints  of  the  place.  Color  in 
with  local  coloring.  The  daughter  will  come  down, 
and  speak  to  her  lover  in  his  wherry  at  Lambeth 
Stairs,"  etc.,  etc.  Jones  (an  intelligent  young  man) 
examines  the  medical,  historical,  topographical  20 
books  necessary ;  his  chief  points  out  to  him  in 
Jeremy  Taylor  (fol.,  London,  m.  dclv.)  a  few  re- 
marks, such  as  might  befit  a  dear  old  archbishop  de- 
parting this  life.  When  I  come  back  to  dress  for 
dinner,  the  archbishop  is  dead  on  my  table  in  five  25 
pages;  medicine,  topography,  theology,  all  right, 
and  Jones  has  gone  home  to  his  family  some  hours. 
Sir  Christopher  is  the  architect  of  St.  Paul's.  He 
has  not  laid  the  stones  or  carried  up  the  mortar. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  carpenter's  and  joiner's  30 
work  in  novels  which  surely  a  smart  professional 
hand  might  supply.  A  smart  professional  hand? 
I  give  you  my  word,  there  seem  to  me  parts  of  nov- 
els— let  us  say  the  love-making,  the  "  business,"  the 


ON  A   PEAL   OF  BELLS.  3^3 

villain  in  the  cupboard,  and  so  forth,  which  I  should 
like  to  order  John  Footman  to  take  in  hand,  as  I  de- 
sire him  to  bring  the  coals  and  polish  the  boots. 
Ask  me  indeed  to  pop  a  robber  under  a  bed,  to  hide 

5  a  will  which  shall  be  forthcoming  in  due  season,  or 
at  my  time  of  life  to  write  a  namby-pamby  love  con- 
versation between  Emily  and  Lord  Arthur!  I  feel 
ashamed  of  myself,  and  especially  when  my  busi- 
ness obliges  me  to  do  the  love-passages,  I  blush  so, 

lo  though  quite  alone  in  my  study,  that  you  would 
fancy  I  was  going  off  in  an  apoplexy.  Are  authors 
affected  by  their  own  works?  I  don't  know  about 
other  gentlemen,  but  if  I  make  a  joke  myself  I  cry; 
if  I  write  a  pathetic  scene  I  am  laughing  wildly  all 

15  the  time — at  least  Tomkins  thinks  so.  You  know 
I  am  such  a  cynic ! 

The  editor  of  the  Carnhill  Magazine  (no  soft  and 
yielding  character  like  his  predecessor,  but  a  man  of 
stern  resolution)  will  only  allow  these  harmless  pa- 

2opers  to  run  to  a  certain  length.  But  for  this  veto 
I  should  gladly  have  prattled  over  half  a  sheet  more, 
and  have  discoursed  on  many  heroes  and  heroines 
of  novels  whom  fond  memory  brings  back  to  me. 
Of  these  books  I  have  been  a  diligent  student  from 

25  those  early  days,  which  are  recorded  at  the  com- 
mencement of  this  little  essay.  Oh,  delightful  nov- 
els, well  remembered !  Oh,  novels,  sweet  and  de- 
licious as  the  raspberry  open-tarts  of  budding  boy- 
hood!     Do  I  forget  one  night  after  prayers  (when 

30  we  under-boys  were  sent  to  bed)  lingering  at  my 
cupboard  to  read  one  little  half-page  more  of  my 
dear  Walter  Scott — and  down  came  the  monitor's 
dictionary  upon  my  head!  Rebecca,  daughter  of 
Isaac  of  York,  I  have  loved  thee  faithfully  for  forty 


364  CRITICISM. 

years!  Thou  wert  twenty  years  old  (say)  and  I 
but  twelve,  when  I  knew  thee.  At  sixty  odd,  love, 
most  of  the  ladies  of  thy  Oriental  race  have  lost  the 
bloom  of  youth,  and  bulged  beyond  the  line  of 
beauty ;  but  to  me  thou  art  ever  young  and  fair,  and  5 
I  will  do  battle  with  any  felon  Templarr  who  assails 
thy  fair  name. 

— Roundabout  Papers. 

Notes. — Finally  we  have  a  piece  of  criticism  which 
recognizes  no  objective  standards,  avowedly  at  least. 
It  is  a  statement  of  personal  likes  and  dislikes.  The  value  10 
of  such  a  criticism  may  be  great,  representing  as  it  does 
the  best  impressions  of  a  cultivated  taste.  Whether 
personal  impressions  can  be  reduced  to  formal  principles 
is  a  question  too  large  to  be  entered  upon  here. 


LIST  OF  SUGGESTED  EXERCISES. 


DESCRIPTIONS. 
Theme  Selection 

1.  A  building,  by  general  impression  and  enumera- 

tion,        I 

2.  A  person,  by  general  impression  and  enumera- 

tion,        2 

3.  A  fruit  or  flower,    by  general  impression  and 

enumeration, 3 

4.  A   landscape,   enumeration    by    the    traveler's 

method, 4 

5.  A  moving  object  or  scene,  with  many  details,     .  5 

6.  Two  persons,  by  running  comparison  of  many 

details, fc 

7.  Two  plants  or  other  objects,  by  running  com- 

parison of  many  details, 7 

8.  An  impressionistic  scene,  with  many  details,       .  8 

9.  An  impression  touching  various  senses,       .        .  g,  10 
10-12.  Views  from  a  fixed  point,          .        .        .        .11,12 

13.  Sights  and  sounds  from  a  fixed  point,  ...  13 

14.  A  building,  by  fundamental  image,       ...  14 

15.  A  town  or  landscape,  by  fundamental  image.     .  15 

16.  Two  persons  or  objects,  by  running  comparison 

of  chosen  details, 16 

17.  A  face,  by  salient  details 17 

18.  19.  Faces    or   persons,  by    exaggeration    of    a 

single  trait,            iS 

20.  A  person  or  persons,  by  effects,    ....  19 

21.  A  room,  by  effects, ao 

22.  An  athletic  pose,  to  arouse  motor  images,            .  21 

23.  A  person,  by  the  use  of  vague  general  phrases,  2a 


366  LIST  OF  SUGGESTEb  EXERCISES. ' 

Theme  Selection 

24.  An  effect  produced  by  music,         ....  23 

25.  A  mental  state, 24,  25 

NARRATIVES. 

26.  A  personal  narrative,  selecting  the  chief  events 

of  a  considerable  period,         ....  26 

27.  An  impersonal  narrative,  covering  all  the  events 

of  an  hour  or  two,  and  arousing  suspense,       .  27 

28.  A  personal  narrative,  referable  to  one  point  of 

view, 28 

2g.  A  narrative,  personal  or  impersonal,  with  moving 

point  of  view 29 

30.  An  impersonal  historical  narrative,  giving  causes,  30 

31.  A  narrative  with  comment  and  dialogue,  .  31 

32.  A  narrative  with  dialogue,  but  without  comment,  32 

EXPOSITIONS. 

33.  A  scientific  principle, 33 

34.  Results  of  a  scientific  investigation,      ...  34 

35.  A  character-sketch,  from  life 35 

36.  A  character-sketch,  imaginative,  •         •        •  35 

37.  Theconstructionof  a  machine,  without  diagrams,  36 

38.  The  construction  of  a  machine,  by  narrative  of 

its  building  or  operation 37 

39.  A  political  institution, 38 

40.  A  social  institution, 39 

41.  An  historical  period,  from  reading  or  observa- 

tion,        40 

42.  A  national  or  racial  character,       .        .         .        .  41,  42 

43.  Some  ideal  social  condition,  ....  43 

44.  An  indirect  appeal  for  conduct,  through  exposi- 

tion,     . 44 

45.  A  humorous  classification  of  persons,  .        .  45 

46.  Exegesis  of  some  word  or  proverb,  .        .  46,  47 

47.  The  point  of  view  of  some  other  person  or  animal 

than  yourself, 48 


LIST  OF  SUGGESTED  EXERCISES.  3^7 

Theme  Selection 

48.  The  principle  of  some  beautiful  phenomenon  of 

nature, 49 

ARGUMENTS. 

49.  Brief  of  selection  52 52 

50.  Brief  of  selection  53 53 

51.  Argument  on  a  social  subject,  not  for  delivery,  51 

52.  Argument  on  a  political  subject,  not  for  delivery,  52 

53.  Deliberative  argument,  for  delivery,    ...  53 

54.  Appeal  to  given  emotion 54 

55.  Appeal  to  given  emotion 55 

CRITICISMS. 

56.  Rhetorical  criticism,   from    academic    point    of 

view 57=  58 

57.  Expository  interpretation 59,  60 

58.  Personal  impressions,     ....  .  59,  60 


Bn^tfsb  WatfiwQS 


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